it must have been now set at rest. There, speaking affrightedly
for itself--there was the same face confronting me over Mrs.
Fairlie's grave which had first looked into mine on the high-road
by night.

"You remember me?" I said. "We met very late, and I helped you to
find the way to London. Surely you have not forgotten that?"

Her features relaxed, and she drew a heavy breath of relief. I
saw the new life of recognition stirring slowly under the death-
like stillness which fear had set on her face.

"Don't attempt to speak to me just yet," I went on. "Take time to
recover yourself--take time to feel quite certain that I am a
friend."

"You are very kind to me," she murmured. "As kind now as you were
then."

She stopped, and I kept silence on my side. I was not granting
time for composure to her only, I was gaining time also for
myself. Under the wan wild evening light, that woman and I were
met together again, a grave between us, the dead about us, the
lonesome hills closing us round on every side. The time, the
place, the circumstances under which we now stood face to face in
the evening stillness of that dreary valley--the lifelong
interests which might hang suspended on the next chance words that
passed between us--the sense that, for aught I knew to the
contrary, the whole future of Laura Fairlie's life might be
determined, for good or for evil, by my winning or losing the