With those words she turned about, and retracing her steps, advanced with her face towards me. It was the face of an elderly woman, brown, rugged, and healthy, with nothing dishonest or suspicious in the look of it. Close to the church she stopped to pull her shawl closer round her.

“Queer,” she said to herself, “always queer, with her whims and her ways, ever since I can remember her. Harmless, though⁠—as harmless, poor soul, as a little child.”

She sighed⁠—looked about the burial-ground nervously⁠—shook her head, as if the dreary prospect by no means pleased her, and disappeared round the corner of the church.