and those they hid, lay impassible to
sun or shadow, to rain or drought.

Importuned by the sound of my own footsteps, I turned off upon the turf,
and slowly advanced to a grove of yews; I saw something stir among the
stems; I thought it might be a broken branch swinging, my short-sighted
vision had caught no form, only a sense of motion; but the dusky shade
passed on, appearing and disappearing at the openings in the avenue. I
soon discerned it was a living thing, and a human thing; and, drawing
nearer, I perceived it was a woman, pacing slowly to and fro, and
evidently deeming herself alone as I had deemed myself alone, and
meditating as I had been meditating. Ere long she returned to a seat
which I fancy she had but just quitted, or I should have caught sight
of her before. It was in a nook, screened by a clump of trees; there was
the white wall before her, and a little stone set up against the wall,
and, at the foot of the stone, was an allotment of turf freshly turned
up, a new-made grave. I put on my spectacles, and passed softly close
behind her; glancing at the inscription on the stone, I read," Julienne
Henri, died at Brussels, aged sixty. August 10th, 18--." Having perused
the inscription, I looked down at the form sitting bent and thoughtful
just under my eyes, unconscious of the vicinity of any living thing; it
was a slim, youthful figure in mourning apparel of the plainest black
stuff, with a little simple, black crape bonnet; I felt, as well as
saw, who it was; and, moving neither hand nor foot, I stood some moments
enjoying the security of conviction. I had sought her for a month, and
had never discovered one of her traces--never met a hope, or seized
a chance of encountering her anywhere. I had been forced to loosen my
grasp on expectation; and, but an hour ago, had sunk slackly under
the discouraging thought that the current of life, and the impulse
of destiny, had swept her for ever from my reach; and, behold, while
bending suddenly earthward beneath the pressure of despondency--while
following with my eyes the track of sorrow on the turf of a
graveyard--here was my lost jewel dropped on the tear-fed herbage,
nestling in the messy and mouldy roots of yew-trees.

Frances sat very quiet, her elbow on her knee, and her head on her hand.
I knew she could retain a thinking attitude a long time without change;
at last, a tear fell; she had been looking at the name on the
stone before her, and her heart had