“My engagement is only for three years,” he resumed; “and, if alive, I mean to come back.  Dead or alive, I was going to say, but you would not care to see my ghost, I presume?  I beg your pardon:  I ought not to make a joke of such serious things.”

“No, you ought not.”

She felt herself almost speechless, that in another minute she might burst into sobs.  He saw it—­at least he saw a very little of it, and misinterpreted the rest.

“I have tired you.  Take my arm.  You will soon be at home now.”  Then, after a pause, “You will not be displeased at any thing I have said?  We part friends?  No, we do not part; I shall see you every day for a week, and be able to tell you all particulars of my journey, if you care to hear.”

“Thank you, yes—­I do care.”

They stood together, arm in arm.  The dews were falling; a sweet, soft lilac haze had begun to creep over the sea—­the solemn; far-away sea that he was so soon to cross.  Involuntarily she clung to his arm.  So near, yet so apart!  Why must it be?  She could have borne his going away, if it was for his good, if he wished it; and something whispered to her that this sudden desire to get rich was not for himself alone.  But, oh!  If he would only speak!  One word—­one little word!  After that, any thing might come—­the separation of life, 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.