twine and twist among the graves. There I encountered a garrulous old
man who, for his own pleasure, evidently, devoted himself to my
information. He pointed out the grave of Fulton, he of the steamboats;
then I was shown the tomb of that Lawrence who would "never give up
the ship"; from there I was carried to the last low bed of the
love-wrecked beautiful Charlotte Temple.

My eye at last, by the alluring voice and finger of the old guide, was
drawn to a spot under the tower where sleeps the Lady Cornbury, dead
now as I tell this, hardly two hundred years. Also I was told of that
Lord Cornbury, her husband, once governor of the colony for his
relative, Queen Anne; and how he became so much more efficient as a
smuggler and a customs cheat, than ever he was as an executive, that
he lost in 1708 his high employment.

Because I had nothing more worthy to occupy my leisure, I
listened--somewhat listlessly, I promise you, for after all I was
thinking of the future not the past, and considering of the living
rather than those old dead folk, obscure, forgotten in their slim
graves--I listened, I say, wordlessly to my gray historian; and
somehow, after I was free of him, the one thing that remained alive in
my memory was the smuggling story of our Viscount Cornbury.

Among those few acquaintances I had formed during my brief
prosperity, was one with a gentleman named Harris, who had owned
apartments under mine on Twenty-second Street. Harris was elegant,
educated, traveled, and apparently well-to-do in riches. Busy with my
own mounting fortunes, the questions of who Harris was? and what he
did? and how he lived? never rapped at the door of my curiosity for
reply. One night, however, as we sat over a late and by no means a