began to cry
bitterly in the gloom.

Presently she ceased crying and with a start looked up, feeling that
she was no longer alone. Her instincts had not deceived her, for in
the shadow of the fir trees, not more than two paces from her, was the
figure of a man. Just then he took a step to the left, which brought
his outline against the sky, and Ida's heart stood still, for now she
knew him. It was Harold Quaritch, the man over whose loss she had been
weeping.

"It's very odd," she heard him say, for she was to leeward of him,
"but I could have sworn that I heard somebody sobbing; I suppose it
was the wind."

Ida's first idea was flight, and she made a movement for that purpose,
but in doing so tripped over a stick and nearly fell.

In a minute he was by her side. She was caught, and perhaps she was
not altogether sorry, especially as she had tried to get away.

"Who is it? what's the matter?" said the Colonel, lighting a fusee
under her eyes. It was one of those flaming fusees, and burnt with a
blue light, showing Ida's tall figure and beautiful face, all stained
with grief and tears, showing her wet macintosh, and the gate-post
against which she had been leaning--showing everything.

"Why, Ida," he said in amaze, "what are you doing here, crying too?"

"I'm not crying," she said, with a sob; "it's the rain that has made
my face wet."

Just then the light burnt out and he dropped it.

"What is it, dear, what is it?" he said in great distress, for the
sight of her alone in the wet and dark, and in tears, moved him beyond
himself. Indeed he would have been no man if it had not.

She tried to answer, but she could not, and in another minute, to tell
the honest truth, she had exchanged the gate-post for Harold's broad
shoulder, and was finishing her "cry" there.

Now to see a young and pretty woman weeping (more especially if she
happens to be weeping on your shoulder) is a very trying thing. It is
trying even if you do not happen to be in love with her at all. But if
you are in love with her, however little, it is dreadful; whereas, if,
as in the present case, you happen to worship her, more, perhaps, than
it is good to worship any fallible human creature, then the sight is
positively overpowering. And so, indeed, it proved in the present
instance. The Colonel could not bear it, but lifting her head from his
shoulder, he kissed her sweet face again and again.

"What is it, darling?" he said, "what is the mat