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 



