"Try to forgive me," I said, when Anne Catherick took her friend's
arm to go away. Innocent as I had been of any intention to
terrify and agitate her, my heart smote me as I looked at the
poor, pale, frightened face.
"I will try," she answered. "But you know too much--I'm afraid
you'll always frighten me now."
Mrs. Clements glanced at me, and shook her head pityingly.
"Good-night, sir," she said. "You couldn't help it, I know but I
wish it was me you had frightened, and not her."
They moved away a few steps. I thought they had left me, but Anne
suddenly stopped, and separated herself from her friend.
"Wait a little," she said. "I must say good-bye."
She returned to the grave, rested both hands tenderly on the
marble cross, and kissed it.
"I'm better now," she sighed, looking up at me quietly. "I
forgive you."
She joined her companion again, and they left the burial-ground.
I saw them stop near the church and speak to the sexton's wife,
who had come from the cottage, and had waited, watching us from a
distance. Then they went on again up the path that led to the
moor. I looked after Anne Catherick as she disappeared, till all
trace of her had faded in the twilight--looked as anxiously and
sorrowfully as if that was the last I was to see in this weary
world of the woman in white.
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