a
little farther and tried again. The lock was very stiff, it was but
seldom moved--once or twice a week at most, and even more seldom oiled.
In spite of the rust, it at length yielded to the strength of my hand,
the bolt shot back with a rough grating sound, the great door swung
back on its rusty hinges, and I entered the silent church.

I withdrew the keys and shut the door. It closed with a bang that
sounded terrible in the great building, but I did not heed. I went
eastward towards the Communion, under which was the tomb of the Mortons.

CHAPTER XXI

THE VAULT UNDER THE COMMUNION

There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but
which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction.
These the mere romancist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or
disgust. They are with propriety handled only when the severity and
majesty of truth sanctify and maintain them. We thrill, for example,
with the most intense of "pleasurable pain" over the accounts of the
Passage of the Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague of
London, of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the 123 prisoners in
the Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these accounts it is the fact--it
is the reality--it is the history which excites. As inventions we
should regard them with simple abhorrence.--EDGAR A. POE'S _Tales of
Mystery and Imagination_.

I stood alone in the old church. How silent everything was! The great
grey granite pillars, surmounted by circling arches, appeared in
ghostly array before me; the high-backed pews seemed to be peopled by
dim, shadowy figures, who had come back to watch me as I looked on the
face of my loved. Everyone of the tablets on the wall was to me a face
of warning. My footfall echoed and re-echoed, until I fancied the
silent church peopled by innumerable visitants from the spirit land.

A dim light which caused weird shadows to fall across the old building,
came in through the small windows, while the light of my lantern made
other shadows more dark, more forbidding.

I wended my way towards the Communion, for even there Bill Tregargus's
words came back to me. "She was buried in the vault under the
Communion," and there I should see all that remained of the only woman
I had ever loved. I passed by the reading desk, then came to the
pulpit, but I did not pause either to examine the curious carvings on
its front or the ancient worm-eaten wood of w