from such places in Italy. It was marked by a monument distinctly
unique in a European country. It was a huge unpolished boulder, over
which creeping green vines were growing.

On its rough surface a cross was cut, and underneath were the words:

"Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare,
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph or Despair."

Below that I read with stupefaction,

"Margaret Dillon and child,"

and the dates

"January, 1843"
"July 25, 1882."

In spite of the doubts and fancies this put into my mind, I no sooner
stood beside the spot where the earth had claimed her, than all my old
interest in her returned. I lingered about the place, full of
romantic fancies, decorating her tomb with flowers, as I had once
decorated her triumphs, absorbed in a dreamy adoration of her memory,
and singing her praise in verse.

It was then that I learned the true story of her disappearance,
guessed at that of her death, as I did at the identity of the young
Dominican priest, who sometimes came to her grave, and who finally
told me such of the facts as I know. I can best tell the story by
picturing two nights in the life of Margaret Dillon, the two following