barn, some
little distance from the house, but there was no clew to his identity.
There were only a few people then who had settled in this bleak region,
and there was no funeral other than the assembling of a half dozen
together, who dug a grave within fifty feet from the elms, and there
laid the charred remains of the unfortunate victims. I had seen a small,
rough, unlettered stone standing there, but did not before know its
meaning.

The next day I related the bit of tragic history to Christopher Gault,
and we strolled over the hill to its scene.

"What a magnificent view!" he exclaimed, as we came to the place.

Certainly it could not be finer. We stood upon an elevated plateau, from
which the prospect in either direction was beautiful and grand. To the
north could be seen the graceful curves of the Green Mountain range,
gradually growing fainter and of paler blue as the eye followed them to
at least seventy miles away.

Farther to the east rose the majestic form of Monadnock, if not the
highest, one of the very noblest peaks in the Granite State. In an
opposite direction, and nearly one hundred miles from Monadnock, stood
old Greylock, the greatest elevation in Massachusetts; while much nearer
by--in fact, seeming almost at our feet when compared with these immense
ranges--lay the charming Deerfield valley, up from which rose the
curling smoke of the locomotive as it moved steadily westward, until
hidden from view by a sudden entrance into Hoosac Tunnel.

The view so absorbed our attention for a time that we hardly noticed our
immediate surroundings. When we did so we began to make an examination.
Gault, with characteristic curiosity, began a search in the bottom of
the old cellar. Suddenly he emerged.

"A veritable relic!" he exclaimed. "See! an old knife; and here on its
handle is a name. Can you read it?" and he handed it to me.

A minute's brisk scouring made it quite plain.

"I have it now," I said. "It is Samuel Wickham."

As I read the inscription I was startled to see the color almost
instantly leave Gault's face.

"Samuel Wickham! You don't mean It. Let me see," and he grasped the
knife from my hand.

"It is. You are right," he said. "You do not understand my interest
in this matter," he added, evidently a little embarrassed at his own
manner. "It was the name that struck me. Probably this knife belonged
to the unfortunate stranger," and he put it carefully in his pocket.

"Do you know just