produced on his nerves was like the shock he used to feel as a child
when his hand was unexpectedly touched in the dark.

"I beg your pardon," he said to the vague shape at the foot of a tree.
"Did you speak to me?"

The shadows divided, and what seemed to him the edge of darkness moved
forward into the dimly lighted space at his side. He saw now that it was
the figure of a woman in a long black cloak, with the dilapidated
remains of a mourning veil hanging from her small bonnet. As she came
toward him he was stirred first by an impulse of pity and immediately
afterward by a violent repulsion. In her whole figure there were the
tragic signs of poverty and desperation; but it was the horror of her
eyes, he told himself, that he should never forget. They were eyes that
would haunt his sleep that night like the face of the drowned man in the
nursery rhyme.

"Will you tell me," asked the woman hurriedly, "who lives in this
house?"

It was a queer question, he thought, for any one to ask in the Square;
but she was probably a stranger.

"This is the Governor's house," he answered courteously. "I suppose you
are a stranger in town."

"I got here a few hours ago, and I came out for a breath of air. I was
four days and nights on the way."

To this he made no reply, and he was about to pass on again, when her