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, churchyards being not at all in my way, whatever they may be in yours.  Finish what you want to do before I come back, and let us be sure and get home again before night.”

With those words she turned about, and retracing her steps, advanced with her face towards me.  It was the face of an elderly woman, brown, rugged, and healthy, with nothing dishonest or suspicious in the look of it.  Close to the church she stopped to pull her shawl closer round her.

“Queer,” she said to herself, “always queer, with her whims and her ways, ever since I can remember her.  Harmless, though—­as harmless, poor soul, as a little child.”

She sighed—­looked about the burial-ground nervously—­shook her head, as if the dreary prospect by no means pleased her, and disappeared round the corner of the church.

I doubted for a moment whether I ought to follow and speak to her or not.  My intense anxiety to find myself face to face with her companion helped me to decide in the negative.  I could ensure seeing the woman in the shawl by waiting near the churchyard until she came back—­although it seemed more than doubtful whether she could give me the information of which I was in search.  The person who had delivered the letter was of little consequence.  The person who had written it was the one centre of interest, and the one source of information, and that person I now felt convinced was before me in the churchyard.