AnonymousTheLastoftheCostellosAfterseveralyears”serviceonthestaffofagreatdailynewspaperinSanFrancisco，GeraldFfrenchreturnedtohishomeinIrelandtoenjoyathreemonths”vacation。Abriefvisit，whenthetimeconsumedintravelingwasdeducted，andtheyoungjournalist，onthisJanuaryafternoon，realizedthatitwasnearlyover，andthathisfurtherstayinthecountryofhisbirthwasnowtobereckonedbydays。
Hehadbeenspendinganhourwithhisoldfriend，Dr。Lynn，andtheclergymanaccompaniedhimtothefootoftherectorylawn，andthence，throughawicketgatethatopeneduponthechurchyard，alongthenarrowpathamongthegraves。Itwasanobscurelittlecountryburying-ground，andveryancient。Thegrasssprangluxuriantfromthemoulderingdustofthreehundredyears；forsolongatleasthadthesefewacresbeenconsecratedtotheirpresentpurpose。
“Well，Iwon”tgoanyfurther，“saysDr。Lynn，haltingattheboundarywall，spannedbyaladder-likeflightofwoodenstepswhichconnectedthechurchyardwiththelittlebye-road。“I”llsaygoodevening，Gerald，andassureyouIappreciateyourkindnessincomingovertoseeastupidoldman。”
“Iwouldnothearthineenemysaythat，“quotedGeraldwithalightlaugh。“IhopetospendanotherdayaspleasantlybeforeIturnmybackonoldIreland。”Heranupthestepsashespokeandstoodonthetopofthewall，lookingbacktowavealastgreetingbeforehedescended。Suddenlyhestopped。
“What”sthat？“heasked，pointingdownamongthegraves。