Sometimes, however, Marjory was permitted to stray round the churchyard, and renew the flowers which, with a weakness which Miss Jean denounced, yet gave in to, she had placed upon the graves. She did this in the evening, when Comlie was beginning to close its windows, and few people saw her glide across the road in her black dress. On one of these occasions, however, Marjory found other people before her in the churchyard. Generally it was very quiet, the loneliest place, with its old sixteenth century monuments standing up around, guarding it from the approach of anything more novel. The two figures before her attracted little attention from her at first, till she perceived that the corner which attracted them was that which contained the Pitcomlie vault. They came back again and again to that spot, the man diverging now and then, the woman ever returning. When Marjory’s attention was fully roused by this, it seemed to her that she recollected the woman’s figure. She was of the middle size, of very ordinary dress and appearance, like a hundred others who might have been met in Comlie High Street; but there was something in her outline and the little gestures she made as she called back her companion, which attracted Marjory’s attention. “Come back, John, come back; there is nothing I care for here but one thing,” she said, leaning upon the very railing where Miss Heriot’s own steps were bound. Marjory went up to her lightly and swiftly, and laid her hand on her shoulder. She turned round with a suppressed cry. It was the same young woman, round, ruddy, and commonplace, but with a serious look in her eyes which gave her a certain dignity, whom Marjory had spoken with at Pitcomlie the night before her father’s funeral. The girl gave a visible start, changed colour, and called again, “Come back, John!” with an air of something like fright. Then she made an effort, and recovered command of herself. She made Marjory a slight curtsey, and confronted her steadily. “Were you wanting something with me, mem?” she said. “I want to know what you have to do at my brother’s grave?” said Marjory, breathless; “what you have to do with him? Won’t you tell me? There is nothing I would not give to know. Oh! tell me! I do not blame you. I mean no harm of any kind; but I want to know.” “Wha said I had anything to do with either him or his grave?” said the young woman. Her companion, attracted by the voices, drew near suddenly, and stood as if to stop further conversation between the two. The stranger gave one indifferent glance up at him, and then went on: “I’ll no pretend I don’t know ye. You’re Miss Heriot, and I’m but a poor lass; but I’ve a right to walk in a place like this, if I like--to read the gravestones, if I like.” “Oh, tell me!” said Marjory, too much excited to notice the air which her companion attempted to give to the discussion. “I mean no harm; tell me only who you are, and if you belong to Isabell.”