“Martha,” said I then, leaning down, and helping her to rise⁠—she seemed to want to rise as if with the intention of going away, but she was weak, and leaned against a boat. “Do you know who this is, who is with me?”

She said faintly, “Yes.”

“Do you know that we have followed you a long way tonight?”

She shook her head. She looked neither at him nor at me, but stood in a humble attitude, holding her bonnet and shawl in one hand, without appearing conscious of them, and pressing the other, clenched, against her forehead.

“Are you composed enough,” said I, “to speak on the subject which so interested you⁠—I hope Heaven may remember it!⁠—that snowy night?”

Her sobs broke out afresh, and she murmured some inarticulate thanks to me for not having driven her away from the door.