“Poor child!” said Leonard, in a half whisper,—“he is not there. Look above!”
The girl did not heed him; he put his arm round her waist gently; she made a gesture of impatience and anger, but she would not turn her face, and she clung to the grave with her hands.
After clear, sunny days the dews fall more heavily; and now, as the sun set, the herbage was bathed in a vaporous haze,—a dim mist rose around. The young man seated himself beside her, and tried to draw the child to his breast. Then she turned eagerly, indignantly, and pushed him aside with jealous arms. He profaned the grave! He understood her with his deep poet-heart, and rose. There was a pause. Leonard was the first to break it.
“Come to your home with me, my child, and we will talk of him by the way.”
“Him! Who are you? You did not know him!” said the girl, still with anger. “Go away! Why do you disturb me? I do no one harm. Go! go!”
“You do yourself harm, and that will grieve him if he sees you yonder! Come!”
The child looked at him through her blinding tears, and his face softened and soothed her.
“Go!” she said, very plaintively, and in subdued accents. “I will but stay a minute more. I—I have so much to say yet.”
Leonard left the churchyard, and waited without; and in a short time the child came forth, waived him aside as he approached her, and hurried away. He followed her at a distance, and saw her disappear within the inn.