out of sight.
If she wished herself dead, and a happy ghost, that by any means she
might get near him, know where he was, and what he was doing, these
dreams came only when her work was done, her boys asleep. Day never
betrayed the secrets of the night. She set to work every morning at her
daily labors with a dogged persistence, never allowing herself a minute's
idleness wherein to sit down and mourn. And when, despite her will, she
could not conquer the fits of nervous irritability that came over her at
times--when the children's innocent voices used to pierce her like
needles, and their incessant questions and perpetual company were almost
more than she could bear--still, even then, all she did was to run away
and hide herself for a little, coming back with a pleasant face and a
smooth temper. Why should she scold them, poor lambs? They were all she
had to love, or that loved her. And they did love her, with all their
boyish hearts.

One day, however--the day before they all left St. Andrews for England,
the two elder to go to school, and the younger ones to return with her to
their maternal grand-mother in London--David said something which wounded
her, vexed her, made her almost thankful to be going away.

She was standing by the laurel bush, which somehow had for her a strange
fascination, and her hand was on the letter-box which the boys and Mr.
Roy had made. There was a childish pleasure in touching it or any thing
he had touched.

"I hope grandmamma won't take away that box," said Archy. "She ought to
keep it in memory of us and Mr. Roy. How cleverly he made it! Wasn't he
clever now, Miss Williams?"

"Yes," she answered and no more.

"I've got a better letter-box than yours," said little Davie,
mysteriously. "Shall I show it to you, Miss Williams? And perhaps,"
with a knowing look--the mischievous lad! and yet he was more loving and
lovable than all the rest, Mr. Roy's favorite, and hers--"perhaps you
might even find a letter in it. Cook says she has seen you many a time
watching for a letter from your sweetheart. Who is he?"

"I have none. Tell cook she should not talk such nonsense to little
boys," said the governess, gravely. But she felt hot from head to foot,
and turning, walked slowly in-doors. She did not go near the laurel bush
again.

After that, she was almost glad to get away, among strange people and
strange places, where Robert Roy's name had never been heard. The
familiar p