"Thank you, sir--not bodily hurt," she replied, in a low and broken voice, while scarcely venturing to look at me, and pressing her left hand upon her heart, as if to restrain emotion, or as if she felt a pain there. "Did that person rob you?" asked I. "O no, no, sir," she answered, hurriedly. "But he seemed to snatch or wrench something from you?" "Yes," said she, with hesitation. "By violence, too?" She did not reply, but covered her face with her handkerchief, and bit it, apparently in efforts to control her sobs. "Can I assist you--be of service to you in any way?" I urged, in a pleading tone; for her whole air and appearance interested me. "No, sir; none can assist me now." "None?" "Save God, and even He seems to abandon me." "What is the meaning of this despair?" I asked, after a pause. "It is a lovers' quarrel, I presume; and if so--" "O no, sir; he is no lover of mine--now, at least." "He--who?" "The gentleman who has just left me," said she, evasively. "But permit me to pass you, sir; I must return to Whitchurch." I bowed, and led my horse aside, that she might pass down the lane. "I thank you, sir, for your kindness," said she, bowing, as I lifted my hat; and then she seemed to totter away weakly and feebly, supporting or guiding herself, as if blind, by the rude low wall; and I could perceive that her left hand, which was now ungloved, was small, delicate, and of exceeding beauty in form. Her manner and air were hurried; her voice and eyes were agitated; she seemed a ladylike little creature, but plainly and darkly attired in a kind of second mourning. Her figure, if _petite_, was very graceful and girlish, too, though she was nearer thirty, perhaps, than twenty. Her face was delicate in feature, and charmingly soft and feminine in expression. Her eyes were of that clear dark gray which seems almost black at night, and their lashes were long and tremulous, lending a chastened or Madonna tone to her face, which, when taken together with her sadness of manner and a certain languor that seemed to be the result of ill-health, proved very prepossessing. With all this there was something, I thought, of the widow in her aspect and dress; but this was merely fancy. Ere I remounted, and while observing her, I perceived that she tottered, as if overcome by weakness, emotion, or both. She sank against the churchyard wall, and nearly fell; on this, I again approached, and said with all softness and respect: "Pardon me, and do not deem me, though a stranger, intrusive; you are ill and weary, and unable to walk alone. Permit me to offer my arm, for a little way at least, down this steep and rugged road." "Thanks," she replied; "you are very kind, sir; once at the foot of this lane, I shall easily make my way alone. I am not afraid of strangers," she added, with a strange smile; "I have been much cast among them of late."