It was Arthur's clear tone that broke the silence. "If it be my grandfather," he said with that reverence that pure young minds feel for the unseen, "it is my place to go and speak to him; he has returned from the other world for some good purpose, and I will speak to him."
"O my blessed lamb!—my dear young lord, I mean," cried poor Johnson in a fresh fit of terror; "don't, for heaven's sake; don't go near him! I am only afraid," and the faithful old man fairly sobbed, "it is to take you away that he has come."
"Yes," and though the boy's cheek grew pale, his voice was firm, "it is my place to go. Aunt Caddy," he whispered, "he died, you know, without having forgiven my uncle."
"Arthur, my dear, this is nonsense!" began Lady Nesbitt nervously.
"Grandmamma, I must go," was the firm reply.
"Come then, Arthur," said Lady Caroline in a low voice; "for it is my place as well as yours, to hear the message of peace and forgiveness."
"My lord, my lord!" pleaded the terrified servants. But he had gone. With his little, thin hand clasped in Aunt Caddy's, he ascended the winding stone staircase that led to the chapel.
The lords of Hurston had adhered through poverty, change, and persecution to the ancient faith, and worshipped for centuries beneath their own roof.
The chapel of Hurston was rich with quaint carving and mediæval ornament. Six graceful columns supported the Gothic roof, each column bearing tablets to the memory of the lords of Hurston who slept beneath. Old Sir Ralph's tomb lay in the shadow of the altar, while that of Arthur's parents—a snow-white shaft supporting a broken pillar—stood in the full light of the chancel window, whose richly-colored panes bore witness to the virtues of the early dead who slept beneath. Lady Caroline felt Arthur's hand tremble, and she herself grew pale with awe; for there indeed, in the bright moonlight that streamed through the painted window—there, close to the tomb of old Sir Ralph, in the shadow of the altar, there stood a form with bowed head and folded arms, a form that Arthur's silver, trembling voice called "Grandfather!"
"Grandfather!" and the boy with his pale face and golden curls looked in the falling moonlight like a seraph. "Grandfather, speak to me! What is it that you wish of me? Speak, dear grandfather! It is your little Arthur; he does not fear you. Grandfather," and his voice grew lower and more musical, "is it the thought of my uncle that disturbs your rest? I will tell him that he is forgiven; that you sent him the angels' Christmas greeting—'Peace on earth to men of good-will—'"