Mr. Force began at the casket nearest the foot of the stairs and read the name—Alexander d’Anglesay, 1250; Malcolm d’Anglesay, A. D.—the rest worn out; Dame Margery d’An—the rest illegible—see, 1090—the rest gone.
“On this side must be the oldest caskets; let us try the other,” said Mr. Force, crossing over to the opposite row, followed by the sexton carrying the lantern, and beginning to read the inscriptions:
“Ah! Richard Anglesea, born July 1, 1801, died January 31, 1850; aged 49 years. Ah! that was the father of an unworthy son! Fell gallantly at the head of his regiment in the battle of——What is that you say, Le?” Mr. Force broke off from his remarks to attend to the words of his young companion.
“I have looked at every casket, uncle! That of Lady Mary Anglesea is not in the vault,” said the young man, with a sigh of disappointment.
“Not, Le! Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, uncle.”
“It is not here, papa! I have looked at every one with Le, and it is not among them,” added Wynnette.
Yet Mr. Force would not be satisfied, but went round to every casket, attended by the sexton carrying the lantern, by the light of which they read every inscription, or what was left of the inscription; but found no trace of Lady Mary Anglesea.
“We had as well give up the search here,” said Mr. Force.
“And where else should we look?” inquired Le, with a face of despair.