desire to see the place once more. Would you kindly show me this monument?"
"Come!" they answered, eagerly, starting off. "It is the best known of all the thousands in the cemetery. None who see it can ever forget it."
"Yes, yes!" murmured the old man. "That is why I have—I foresaw— Is it not a beautiful monument? Does it not lie—in what direction does it lie?"
A feverish eagerness seized him. He walked now beside, now before, his companions. Once he wheeled on them.
"Sirs, did you not say it perpetuates the memory of her—of the one—who lies beneath it?"
"Both are famous. The story of this woman and her monument will never be forgotten. It is impossible to forget it."
"Year after year—" muttered he, brushing his hand across his eyes.
They soon came to a spot where the aged branches of memorial evergreens interwove a sunless canopy, and spread far around a drapery of gloom through which the wind passed with an unending sigh. Brushing aside the lowest boughs, they stepped in awe-stricken silence within the dank, chill cone of shade. Before them rose the shape of a gray monument, at sight of which the aged traveller, who had fallen behind, dropped his staff and held out his arms as though he would have embraced it. But, controlling himself, he stepped forward, and said, in tones of thrilling sweetness:
"Sirs, you have not told me what story is connected with this monument that it should be so famous. I conceive it must be some very touching one of her whose name I read—some beautiful legend–"
