And then, still looking in the mirror, I saw the door behind me open
slowly.

The next moment, two persons noiselessly entered the room--a young man
and a girl. They wore the dress of the early Georgian days, as well as
I could see; for the girl was wrapped in a cloak with a hood that almost
concealed her face, while the man wore a heavy riding-coat. He was
booted and spurred, and the backs of his top-boots were splashed with
mud. I say the backs of his boots, for he stood with his back to me
while he held open the door for the girl to pass, and at first I could
not see his face.

The lady advanced into the light of the candles and threw back her hood.
Her eyes were dark and frightened: her cheeks damp with rain and
slightly reddened by the wind. A curl of brown hair had broken loose
from its knot and hung, heavy with wet, across her brow. It was a
beautiful face; and I recognised its owner. She was Cicely Williams.

With that, I knew well enough what I was to see next. I knew it even
while the man at the door was turning, and I dug the nails of my right
hand into the palm of my left, to repress the fear that swelled up as a
wave as I looked straight into his face and saw--_my own self_.

But I had expected it, as I say: and when the wave of fear had passed
over me and gone, I could observe these two figures steadfastly enough.
The girl dropped into a chair beside the table, and stretching her arms
along the white cloth, bowed her head over them and wept. I saw her
shoulders heave and her twined fingers work as she struggled with her
grief. The young Squire advanced and, with a hand on her shoulder,