and months been with him every day; but it was less like a girl missing her lover-who was, after all, not her lover-than a child mourning helplessly for the familiar voice, the guiding, helpful hand. With all the rest of the world Fortune Williams was an independent, energetic woman-self-contained, brave, and strong, as a solitary governess had need to be; but beside Robert Roy she felt like a child, and she cried for him like a child

"And with no language but a cry."

So the week ended and Sunday came, kept at Mrs. Dalziel's like the Scotch Sundays of twenty years ago. No visitor ever entered the house, wherein all the meals were cold and the blinds drawn down, as if for a funeral. The family went to church for the entire day, St. Andrews being too far off for any return home "between sermons." Usually one servant was left in charge, turn and turn about; but this Sunday Mrs. Dalziel, having put the governess in the nurse's place beside the ailing child, thought

shrewdly she might as well put her in the servant's place too, and let her take charge of the kitchen fire, as well as of little David. Being English, Miss Williams was not so exact about "ordinances" as a Scotchwoman would have been; so Mrs. Dalziel had no hesitation in asking her to remain at home alone the whole day in charge of her pupil.

Thus faded, Fortune thought, her last hope of seeing Robert Roy again, either at church— where he usually sat in the Dalziel pew, by the old lady's request, to make the boys "behave "

-or walking down the street, where he sometimes took the two eldest to eat their "piece" at his lodgings. All was now ended; yet on the hope-or dread-of this last Sunday, she had hung, she now felt with what intensity, till it was gone.

Fortune was the kind of woman who, were it given her to fight, could fight to the death, against fate or circumstances; but when her part was simply passive, she could also endure. Not, as some do, with angry grief or futile

resistance, but with a quiet patience so complete that only a very quick eye would have found out she was suffering at all.

Little David did not, certainly. When, hour after hour, she sat by his sofa, interesting him as best she could in the dull "good" books which alone were allowed of Sundays, and then passing into word-of-mouth stories-the beautiful Bible stories over which her own voice trembled while she told them-Ruth, with her piteous cry, "Whither thou goest, I will go; where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried-;" Jonathan, whose soul "clave to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul,"-all those histories of passionate fidelity and agonized parting-for every sort of love is essentially the same-how they went to her very heart!

Oh, the awful quietness of that Sunday, that Sabbath which was not rest, in which the hours crawled on in sunshiny stillness, neither voices nor steps nor sounds of any kind, breaking the death-like hush of everything. At length the

boy fell asleep; and then Fortune seemed to wake up, for the first time, to the full consciousness of what was and what was about to be.

All of a sudden she heard steps on the gravel below, then the hall-bell rang through the silent. house. She knew who it was, even before she opened the door and saw him standing there.

"May I come in? They told me you were keeping house alone, and I said I should just walk over to bid you and David good-bye.”

Mr. Roy's manner was grave and matter-of-fact -a little constrained, perhaps, but not much— and he looked so exceedingly pale and tired that without any hesitation she took him into the school-room where they were sitting, and gave him the arm-chair by David's sofa.

"Yes, I own to being rather overdone; I have had so much to arrange, for I must leave here to-morrow, as I think you know."

"The boys told me."

"I thought they would. I should have done it myself, but every day I hoped to see you. It was this little fellow's fault, I suppose" patting

David's head). "He seems quite well now, and as jolly as possible. You don't know what it is to say 'Good-bye,' David, my son."

Mr. Roy, who always got on well with children, had a trick of calling his younger pupils "My son."

"Why do you say 'Good-bye' at all then?” asked the child, a mischievous but winning young scamp of six or seven, who had as many tricks as a monkey or a magpie. In fact, in chattering and hiding things, he was nearly as bad as a magpie; the torment of his governess's life, and yet she was fond of him. “Why do you bid us good-bye, Mr. Roy? Why don't you stay always with Miss Williams and me?"

"I wish to God I could.”

She heard that, heard it distinctly, though it was spoken beneath his breath; and she felt the look, turned for one moment upon her as she stood by the window. She never forgot either -never as long as she lived. Some words, some looks, can deceive, perhaps quite unconsciously, by being either more demonstrative