he bright days were done. Soon after dawn
Fortune had woke up and watched the sunrise, till a chill fog crept over
the sea and blotted it out; then gradually blotted out the land also, the
Links, the town, every thing. A regular St. Andrews "haar;" and St.
Andrews people know what that is. Miss Williams had seen it once or
twice before, but never so bad as this--blighting, penetrating, and so
dense that you could hardly see your hand before you.

But Fortune scarcely felt it. She said to herself, "Today is Tuesday,"
which meant nothing to any one else, every thing to her. For she knew
the absolute faithfulness, the careful accuracy, in great things and
small, with which she had to do. If Robert Roy said, "I will write on
such a day," he was as sure to write as that the day would dawn; that is,
so far as his own will went; and will, not circumstance, is the strongest
agent in this world.

Therefore she waited quietly for the postman's horn. It sounded at last.

"I'll go," cried Archy. "Just look at the haar! I shall have to grope
my way to the gate."

He came back, after what seemed an almost endless time, rubbing his head
and declaring he had nearly blinded himself by running right into the
laurel bush.

"I couldn't see for the fog. I only hope I've left none of the letters
behind. No, no; all right. Such a lot! It's the Indian mail. There's
for you, and you, boys." He dealt them out with a merry, careless hand.

There was no letter for Miss Williams--a circumstance so usual that
nobody noticed it or her, as she sat silent in her corner, while the
children read noisily and gaily the letters from their far-away parents.

_Her_ letter--what had befallen it? Had he forgotten to write? But
Robert Roy never forgot any thing. Nor did he delay any thing that he
could possibly do at the time he promised. He was one of the very few
people in this world who in small things as in great are absolutely
reliable. It seemed so impossible to believe he had not written, when he
said he would, that as a last hope, she stole out with a plaid over her
head and crept through the sidewalks of the garden, almost groping her
way through the fog, and, like Archy, stumbling over the low boughs of
the laurel bush to the letter-box it held. Her trembling hands felt in
every corner, but no letter was there.

She went wearily back; weary at heart, but patient still. A love like
hers, self-existent and sufficient to itse