I never thought, never for a moment, that my poor dear mother was buried in the crypt.

And when I went to look at the name on the coffin that was nearest to where I was, I knocked away the dust, and then I saw her name: "Margaret Norman, aetat 22." I couldn't bear it.

She was only a girl herself, only just twice my age--lying there in that terrible dark place with all the thick dust and the spiders' webs.

Oh, Harold, Harold! How shall I ever bear to think of her lying there, and that I shall never see her dear face?
Never! Never!' He tried to soothe her by patting and holding her hands.

For a good while the resolution of the girl faltered, and she was but as a little child.