'You are ill. Come back! I am afraid you are very ill.'

'It's not that, not that,' Lawford muttered; 'don't leave me; I
am alone. Don't question me,' he said strangely, looking down
into her face, clutching her hand; 'only understand that I can't,
I can't go on.' He swept a lean arm towards the unseen
churchyard. 'I am afraid.'

The cold hand clasped his closer. 'Hush, don't speak! Come back;
come back. I am with you, a friend, you see; come back.'

Lawford clutched her hand as a blind man in sudden peril might
clutch the hand of a child. He saw nothing clearly; spoke almost
without understanding his words.

'Oh, but it's MUST,' he said; 'I MUST go on. You see--why,
everything depends on struggling through: the future! But if you
only knew-- There!' Again his arm swept out, and the lean
terrified face turned shuddering from the dark.

'I do know; believe me, believe me! I can guess. See, I am coming
with you; we will go together. As if, as if I did not know what
it is to be afraid. Oh, believe me; no one is near; we go on; and
see! it gradually, gradually lightens. How thankful I am I came.'

She had turned and they were steadily ascending as if pushing
their way, battling on through some obstacle of the mind rather
than of the senses beneath the star-powdered callous vault of
night. And it seemed to Lawford as if, as they pressed on