and resolved to have a
nearer look at the place, with a view to stopping there for the night,
if it pleased me. I found the principal inn clean and quiet--ordered
my bed there--and, after dinner, strolled out to look at the church. No
thought of Uncle George was in my mind when I entered the building; and
yet, at that very moment, chance was leading me to the discovery which,
for so many years past, I had vainly endeavored to make--the discovery
which I had given up as hopeless since the day of my mother's death.

I found nothing worth notice in the church, and was about to leave it
again, when I caught a glimpse of a pretty view through a side door, and
stopped to admire it.

The churchyard formed the foreground, and below it the hill-side sloped
away gently into the plain, over which the sun was setting in full
glory. The cure of the church was reading his breviary, walking up and
down a gravel-path that parted the rows of graves. In the course of my
wanderings I had learned to speak French as fluently as most Englishmen,
and when the priest came near me I said a few words in praise of
the view, and complimented him on the neatness and prettiness of
the churchyard. He answered with great politeness, and we got into
conversation together immediately.

As we strolled along the gravel-walk, my attention was attracted by one
of the graves standing apart from the rest. The cross at the head of it
differed remarkably, in some points of appearance, from the crosses on
the other graves. While all the rest had garlands hung on them, this
one cross was quite bare; and, more extraordinary still, no name was
inscribed on it.

The priest, observing that I stopped to look at the grave, shook his
head and sighed.

"A countryman of yours is buried there," he said. "I was present at his
death. He had borne the burden of a great sorrow among us, in this town,
for many weary years, and his conduct had taught us to respect and pity
him with all our hearts."

"How is it that his name is not inscribed over his grave?" I inquired.

"It was suppressed by his own desire," answered the priest, with some
little hesitation. "He confessed to me in his last moments that he had
lived here under an assumed name. I asked his real name, and he told
it to me, with the particulars of his sad story. He had reasons for
desiring to be forgotten after his death. Almost the last words he spoke
were, 'Let my name die with me.' Almost the last request