nged; but he was hers no more. Yet that strange
yearning, the same which had impelled Mr. Moseley to write and say, "Come
and see me before I die," seemed impelling her to stretch a hand out
across the seas--"Have you forgotten me: I have never forgotten you."
As she passed through the church-yard on her way to the village, and saw
the rector's grave lie smiling in the evening sunshine, Fortune thought
what a strange lot hers had been. The man who had loved her, the man
whom she had loved, were equally lost to her; equally dead and buried.
And yet she lived still--her busy, active, and not unhappy life. It was
God's will, all; and it was best.

Another six months went by, and she still remained in the same place,
though talking daily of leaving. They began to go into society again,
she and her girls, and to receive visitors now and then: among the rest,
David Dalziel, who had preserved his affectionate fidelity even when he
went back to college, and had begun to discover somehow that the direct
road from Oxford to every where was through this secluded village. I am
afraid Miss Williams was not as alive as she ought to have been to this
fact, and to the other fact that Helen and Janetta were not quite
children now, but she let the young people be happy, and was happy with
them, after her fashion. Still, hers was less happiness than peace; the
deep peace which a storm-tossed vessel finds when kindly fate has towed
it into harbor; with torn sails and broken masts, maybe, but still safe,
never needing to go to sea any more.

She had come to that point in life when we cease to be "afraid of evil
tidings," since nothing is likely to happen to us beyond what has
happened. She told herself that she did not look forward to the answer
from Shanghai, if indeed any came; nevertheless, she had ascertained what
time the return mail would be likely to bring it. And, almost punctual
to the day, a letter arrived with the postmark, "Shanghai." Not his
letter, nor his handwriting at all. And, besides, it was addressed to
"_Mrs._ Williams."

A shudder of fear, the only fear which could strike her now--that he
might be dead--made Fortune stand irresolute a moment, then go up to her
own room before she opened it.

"Madam,--I beg to apologize for having read nearly through your letter
before comprehending that it was not meant for me, but probably for
another Mr. Robert Roy, who left this place not long after I came here,
and b