JOHN LEDYARD. 343 



lages keep low under ground ! What red lips, could they 

 open in the dust, would tell love tales ! What forms, 

 could they move, would nestle in the clasps of love, those 

 close embraces of which the grave itself and decay and 

 dust can hardly bar the memory ! What thin old lips 

 would whisper stories of youth and passion and madness." 



" Is that all of it, Mrs. Ward ?" 



"All." 



" Is it true ?" 



" Ask the Effendi." 



" How much of it is founded on fact, old man ?" 



" Upon my word, John, if any one but A had said 



it, I wouldn't believe I ever wrote the letter. I remem- 

 ber nothing about it. But I'll tell you what I do remem- 

 ber talking about wandering Americans and that is 

 how I once hunted in Cairo for the grave of John Led- 

 yard, whose life was of the most romantic kind. I always 

 had a boy's admiration of him, and the first time I went 

 to Cairo I had it prominently in mind to see his last rest- 

 ing-place. It didn't occur to me that I should have any 

 trouble in finding it. 



" I had thought of taking a walk around the city, and 

 calling at three or four places to make inquiries ; and in 

 my ignorance I had supposed that an hour's inquiry here 

 and there would soon determine, one way or the other, 

 whether I could accomplish my object. 



" My wish was a pious one. I believe that all Amer- 

 icans feel some interest in it, though I am not aware that 

 any one had before made the attempt that I made to 

 gratify it. 



" From childhood I had heard Ledyard's name men- 

 tioned frequently in the family, as a relative and friend of 



