It seemed to her that the Hereafter must indeed be terrible if it
outweighs the sorrows of the Here.
And then, poor woman, she thought of the long years between her and
rest, and leaning her head against the gate-post, 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.
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