He saw now that it was the figure of a woman in a long black cloak, with the dilapidated remains of a mourning veil hanging from her small bonnet.

As she came toward him he was stirred first by an impulse of pity and immediately afterward by a violent repulsion.

In her whole figure there were the tragic signs of poverty and desperation; but it was the horror of her eyes, he told himself, that he should never forget.

They were eyes that would haunt his sleep that night like the face of the drowned man in the nursery rhyme.
"Will you tell me," asked the woman hurriedly, "who lives in this house ?" It was a queer question, he thought, for any one to ask in the Square; but she was probably a stranger.
"This is the Governor's house," he answered courteously.

"I suppose you are a stranger in town." "I got here a few hours ago, and I came out for a breath of air.