"No, no, don't say it," sobbed the woman wildly. "You don't understand—you don't understand!" And she turned and hurried away, a tall black shadow of grief, followed by the anguished eyes of the man, and the wistful puzzled eyes of the boy.
It was not a long walk to the tree-embowered plot of ground where the marble shafts and slabs glistened in the sunlight, and the Lady in Black knew the way; yet she stumbled and reached out blindly, and she fell, as if exhausted, before a little stone marked "Kathleen." Near her a gray-haired woman, with her hands full of pink and white roses, watched her sympathetically. She hesitated, and opened her lips as if she would speak, then she turned slowly and began to arrange her flowers on a grave near by.
At the slight stir the Lady in Black raised her head. For a time she watched in silence; then she threw back her veil and spoke.
"You care, too," she said softly. "You understand. I've seen you here before, I'm sure. And was yours—a little girl?"
The gray-haired woman shook her head.
"No, dearie, it's a little boy—or he was a little boy forty years ago."
"Forty years—so long! How could you have lived forty years—without him?"
Again the little woman shook her head.
"One has to—sometimes, dearie; but this little boy was n't mine. He was none of my kith nor kin."
"But you care—you understand. I 've seen you here so often before."