ife, the bitterness of death. To the two
hearts that had once opened each to each, in the full recognition of
mutual love, there could never more be any real parting.

But that one word he did not say. He only took the little hand that lay
on his arm and pressed it, and held it--years after, the feeling of that
clasp was as fresh on her fingers as yesterday--the hearing the foot of
some accidental passer-by, he let it go, and did not take it again.

Just at this moment the sound of distant carriage wheels was heard.

"That must be Mrs. Dalziel and the boys."

"Then I had better go. Good-by"

The daydream was over. It had all come back again--the forlorn, dreary,
hard-working world.

"Good-by, Mr. Roy." And they shook hands.

"One word," he said hastily. "I shall write to you--you will allow
me?--and I shall see you several times, a good many times before I go?"

"I hope so."

"Then, for the present, good-by. That means," he added, earnestly,
"'God be with you!' And I know he always will."

In another minute Fortune found herself standing beside the laurel
bush, alone, listening to the sound of Mr. Roy's footsteps down the
road--listening, listening, as if, with the exceeding tension, her
brain would burst.

The carriage came, passed by; it was not Mrs. Dalziel's after all. She
thought he might discover this, and come back again; so she waited a
little--five minutes, ten--beside the laurel bush. But he did not come.
No footstep, no voice; nothing but the faint, far-away sound of the long
waves washing in upon the sands.

It was not the brain that felt like to burst now, but the heart. She
clasped her hands above her head. It did not matter; there was no
creature to see or hear that appeal--was it to man or God?--that wild,
broken sob, so contrary to her usual self-controlled and self-contained
nature. And then she learned her forehead against the gate, just where
Robert Roy had accidentally laid his hand in opening it, and wept
bitterly.

Chapter 2.

The "every day" on which Mr. Roy had reckoned for seeing his friend, or
whatsoever else he considered Miss Williams to be, proved a failure. Her
youngest pupil fell ill, and she was kept beside him, and away from the
school-room, until the doctor could decide whether the illness was
infectious or not. It turned out to be very trifling--a most trivial
thing altogether, yet weighted with a pain most difficult to bear, a
sense of fatality t