me. I suppose that you long to see me, as I have longed to see you."

As the figure spoke, or rather wailed, a moonbeam struggled through the
watery air and fell on it. It was short and shrunken, the figure of a
tiny woman. Also it was dressed in black and wore a black covering over
the whole head, shrouding it, after the fashion of a bridal veil. From
every part of this veil and dress the water fell in heavy drops.

The figure bore a small basket on her left arm, and her hand--such a
poor thin little hand--gleamed white in the moonlight. I noticed that
on the third finger was a red line, showing that a wedding-ring had
once been there. The other hand was stretched towards me as though in
entreaty.

All this I saw in an instant, as it were, and as I saw it, horror seemed
to grip me by the throat as though it were a living thing, for as the
voice had been familiar, so was the form familiar, though the churchyard
had received it long years ago. I could not speak--I could not even
move.

"Oh, don't you know me yet?" wailed the voice; "and I have come from so
far to see you, and I cannot stop. Look, look," and she began to pluck
feverishly with her poor thin hand at the black veil that enshrouded
her. At last it came off, and, as in a dream, I saw what in a dim frozen
way I had expected to see--the white face and pale yellow hair of my
dead wife. Unable to speak or to stir, I gazed and gazed. There was no
mistake about it, it was she, ay, even as I had last seen her, white
with the whiteness of death, with purple circles round her eyes and the
grave-cloth yet beneath her chin. Only her eyes were wide open and fixed
upon my face; and a lock of the soft yellow hair had broken loose, and