Every year, the day he walked back from the great graveyard¹, he went to church as he had done the day his idea was born.  It was on this occasion, as it happened, after a year had passed, that he began to observe his altar to be haunted by a worshipper at least as frequent as himself.  Others of the faithful, and in the rest of the church, came and went, appealing sometimes, when they disappeared, to a vague or to a particular recognition; but this unfailing presence was always to be observed when he arrived and still in possession when he departed.  He was surprised, the first time, at the promptitude with which it assumed an identity for him—the identity of the lady whom two years before, on his anniversary, he had seen so intensely bowed, and of whose tragic² face he had had so flitting a vision.  Given the time that had passed, his recollection of her was fresh enough to make him wonder.  Of himself she had of course no impression, or rather had had none at first: the time came when her manner of transacting³ her business suggested her having gradually guessed his call to be of the same order.  She used his altar for her own purpose—he could only hope that sad and solitary⁴ as she always struck him, she used it for her own Dead.  There were interruptions, infidelities, all on his part, calls to other associations and duties; but as the months went on he found her whenever he returned, and he ended by taking pleasure in the thought that he had given her almost the contentment he had given himself.  They worshipped side by side so often that there were moments when he wished he might be sure, so straight did their prospect⁵ stretch away of growing old together in their rites⁶.  She was younger than he, but she looked as if her Dead were at least as numerous as his candles.  She had no colour, no sound, no fault, and another of the things about which he had made up his mind was that she had no fortune.  Always black-robed, she must have had a succession of sorrows.  People weren’t poor, after all, whom so many losses could overtake; they were positively⁷ rich when they had had so much to give up.  But the air of this devoted⁸ and indifferent woman, who always made, in any attitude, a beautiful accidental line, conveyed somehow to Stransom that she had known more kinds of trouble than one.  
He had a great love of music and little time for the joy of it; but occasionally, when workaday noises were muffled⁹ by Saturday afternoons, it used to come back to him that there were glories.  There were moreover friends who reminded him of this and side by side with whom he found himself sitting out concerts.  On one of these winter afternoons, in St. James’s Hall, he became aware after he had seated himself that the lady he had so often seen at church was in the place next him and was evidently alone, as he also this time happened to be.  She was at first too absorbed in the consideration of the programme to heed¹⁰ him, but when she at last glanced at him he took advantage of the movement to speak to her, greeting her with the remark that he felt as if he already knew her.  She smiled as she said “Oh yes, I recognise you”; yet in spite of this admission of long acquaintance it was the first he had seen of her smile.  The effect of it was suddenly to contribute more to that acquaintance than all the previous meetings had done.  He hadn’t “taken in,” he said to himself, that she was so pretty.  Later, that evening—it was while he rolled along in a hansom on his way to dine out—he added that he hadn’t taken in that she was so interesting.  The next morning in the midst of his work he quite suddenly and irrelevantly¹¹ reflected that his impression of her, beginning so far back, was like a winding¹² river that had at last reached the sea.
 
His work in fact was blurred¹³ a little all that day by the sense of what had now passed between them.  It wasn’t much, but it had just made the difference.  They had listened together to Beethoven and Schumann; they had talked in the pauses, and at the end, when at the door, to which they moved together, he had asked her if he could help her in the matter of getting away.  She had thanked him and put up her umbrella, slipping into the crowd without an allusion¹⁴ to their meeting yet again and leaving him to remember at leisure that not a word had been exchanged about the usual scene of that coincidence.  This omission¹⁵ struck him now as natural and then again as perverse¹⁶.  She mightn’t in the least have allowed his warra............