forgot again.

It chanced that a few years later I was in Italy, and being not many
miles from the town where I heard that she was buried, and a trifle
overstrung by a few months delicious, aimless life in that wonderful
country, I was taken with a sentimental fancy to visit her grave.

It was a sort of pilgrimage for me, for I had given to Dillon my first
boyish devotion.

I thought of her, and to remember her was to recall her rare charm,
her beauty, her success, after a long struggle, and the unexpected,
inexplicable manner in which she had abandoned it. It was to recall,
too, the delightful evenings I had spent under her influence, the
pleasure I had had in the passion of her "Juliet," the poetic charm of
her "Viola"; the graceful witchery of her "Rosalind"; how I had smiled
with her "Portia"; laughed with her "Beatrice"; wept with her
"Camille"; in fact how I had yielded myself up to her magnetism with
that ecstatic pleasure in which one gets the best joys of every
passion, because one does not drain the dregs of any.

I well remembered her last night, how she had disappeared, how she had
gone to Europe, how she had died abroad,--all mere facts known in
their bareness only to the public.

It was hard to find the place where she was buried. But at last I
succeeded.

It was in a humble churchyard. The grave was noticeable because it was
well kept, and utterly devoid of the tawdry ornamentation inseparable