I knew it even while the man at the door was turning, and I dug the nails of my right hand into the palm of my left, to repress the fear that swelled up as a wave as I looked straight into his face and saw--_my own self_.
But I had expected it, as I say: and when the wave of fear had passed over me and gone, I could observe these two figures steadfastly enough.
The girl dropped into a chair beside the table, and stretching her arms along the white cloth, bowed her head over them and wept.

I saw her shoulders heave and her twined fingers work as she struggled with her grief.

The young Squire advanced and, with a hand on her shoulder, endeavoured by many endearments to comfort her.

His lips moved vehemently, and gradually her shoulders ceased to rise and fall.
By-and-by she raised her head and looked up into his face with wet, gleaming eyes.

It was very pitiful to see.