There was a knot in my throat; I felt almost as uncomfortable as I had in Mary Pask’s own presence. Yet I had never before noticed anything uncanny about Grace Bridgeworth. I forced my voice up to my lips.
“Everything? Oh, I can’t—.” I tried to smile.
“But you did see her?”
I managed to nod, still smiling.
Her face grew suddenly haggard—yes, haggard! “And the change was so dreadful that you can’t speak of it? Tell me—was that it?”
I shook my head. After all, what had shocked me was that the change was so slight—that between being dead and alive there seemed after all to be so little difference, except that of a mysterious increase in reality. But Grace’s eyes were still searching me insistently. “You must tell me,” she reiterated. “I know I ought to have gone there long ago—”
“Yes; perhaps you ought.” I hesitated. “To see about the grave, at least....”
She sat silent, her eyes still on my face. Her tears had stopped, but her look of solicitude slowly grew into a stare of something like terror. Hesitatingly, almost reluctantly, she stretched out her hand and laid it on mine for an instant. “Dear old friend—” she began.
“Unfortunately,” I interrupted, “I couldn’t get back myself to see the grave ... because I was taken ill the next day....”
“Yes, yes; of course. I know.” She paused. “Are you sure you went there at all?” she asked abruptly.