"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 he made was that I would keep that
name a secret from all the world excepting only one person."

"Some relative, I suppose?" said I.

"Yes--a nephew," said the priest.

The moment the last word was out of his mouth, my heart gave a
strange answering bound. I suppose I must have changed color
also, for the cure looked at me with sudden attention and
interest.

"A nephew," the priest went on, "whom he had loved like his own
child. He told me that if this nephew ever traced him to his
burial-place, and asked about him, I was free in that case to
disclose all I knew. 'I should like my little Charley to know the
truth,' he said. 'In spite of the difference in our ages, Charley
and I were playmates years ago.' "

My heart beat faster, and I felt a choking sensation at the