iven to them--some
well, some ill; some wisely, some foolishly; but, in the main, the dictum
of the Preacher is not far from the truth, "All things come alike to
all."

A whole winter had passed by, and the spring twilights were beginning to
lengthen, tempting Miss Williams and her girls to linger another half
hour before they lit the lamp for the evening. They were doing so,
cozily chatting over the fire, after the fashion of a purely feminine
household, when there was a sudden announcement that a gentleman, with
two little boys, wanted to see Miss Williams. He declined to give his
name, and said he would not detain her more than a few minutes.

"Let him come in here," Fortune was just about to say, when she reflected
that it might be some law business which concerned her girls, whom she
had grown so tenderly anxious to save from any trouble and protect from
every care. "No, I will go and speak to him myself."

She rose and walked quietly into the parlor, already shadowed into
twilight: a neat, compact little person, dressed in soft gray homespun,
with a pale pink bow on her throat, and another in her cap--a pretty
little fabric of lace and cambric, which, being now the fashion, her
girls had at last condescended to let her wear. She had on a black silk
apron, with pockets, into one of which she had hastily thrust her work,
and her thimble was yet on her finger. This was the figure on which the
eyes of the gentleman rested as he turned around.

Miss Williams lifted her eyes inquiringly to his face--a bearded face,
thin and dark.

"I beg your pardon, I have not the pleasure of knowing you; I--"

She suddenly stopped. Something in the height, the turn of the head, the
crisp dark hair, in which were not more than a few threads of gray, while
hers had so many now, reminded her of--someone, the bare thought of whom
made her feel dizzy and blind.

"No," he said, "I did not expect you would know me; and indeed, until I
saw you, I was not sure you were the right Miss Williams. Possibly you
may remember my name--Roy, Robert Roy."

Faces alter, manners, gestures; but the one thing which never changes is
a voice. Had Fortune heard this one--ay, at her last dying hour, when
all worldly sounds were fading away--she would have recognized it at
once.

The room being full of shadow, no one could see any thing distinctly; and
it was as well.

In another minute, she had risen, and held out her hand.

"I am very gla