f these windows I
could see Mrs. Fairlie's grave. The other looked towards the stone
quarry in which the sexton's cottage was built. Before me, fronting
the porch entrance, was a patch of bare burial-ground, a line of low
stone wall, and a strip of lonely brown hill, with the sunset clouds
sailing heavily over it before the strong, steady wind. No living
creature was visible or audible--no bird flew by me, no dog barked from
the sexton's cottage. The pauses in the dull beating of the surf were
filled up by the dreary rustling of the dwarf trees near the grave, and
the cold faint bubble of the brook over its stony bed. A dreary scene
and a dreary hour. My spirits sank fast as I counted out the minutes
of the evening in my hiding-place under the church porch.

It was not twilight yet--the light of the setting sun still lingered in
the heavens, and little more than the first half-hour of my solitary
watch had elapsed--when I heard footsteps and a voice. The footsteps
were approaching from the other side of the church, and the voice was a
woman's.

"Don't you fret, my dear, about the letter," said the voice. "I gave
it to the lad quite safe, and the lad he took it from me without a
word. He went his way and I went mine, and not a living soul followed
me afterwards--that I'll warrant."

These words strung up my attention to a pitch of expectation that was
almost painful. There was a pause of silence, but the footsteps still
advanced. In another moment two persons, both women, passed within my
range of view from the porch window. They were walking straight
towards the grave; and therefore they had their backs turned towards me.

One of the women was dressed in a bonnet and shawl. The other wore a
long travelling-cloak of a dark-blue colour, with the hood drawn over
her head. A few inches of her gown were visible below the cloak. My
heart beat fast as I noted the colour--it was white.

After advancing about half-way between the church and the grave they
stopped, and the woman in the cloak turned her head towards her
companion. But her side face, which a bonnet might now have allowed me
to see, was hidden by the heavy, projecting edge of the hood.

"Mind you keep that comfortable warm cloak on," said the same voice
which I had already heard--the voice of the woman in the shawl. "Mrs.
Todd is right about your looking too particular, yesterday, all in
white. I'll walk about a little while you're here, chur