“What is it?”

“Simply this.  If a man has not a half-penny, ought he to ask a woman to share it?  Rather an Irish way of putting the matter,” with a laugh, not without bitterness, “but you understand.  Ought he not to wait till he has at least something to offer besides himself:  Is it not mean, selfish, cowardly, to bind a woman to all the chances or mischances of his lot, instead of fighting it out alone like a man:  My friend thinks so, and I—­I agree with him.”

“Then why did you ask me.”

The words, though low and clear, were cold and sharp—­sharp with almost unbearable pain.  Every atom of pride in her was roused.  Whether he loved her and would not tell her so, or loved some other woman and wished her know it, it was all the same.  He was evidently determined to go away free and leave her free; and perhaps many sensible men or women would say he was right in so doing.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, almost humbly.  “I ought not to have spoken of this at all.  I ought just to have said ‘Good-by,’ and nothing more.”  And he took her hand.

There was on it one ring, not very valuable, but she always liked to wear it, as it had belonged to her mother.  Robert Roy drew it off, and put it deliberately into his pocket.

“Give me this; you shall have it back again when I am dead, or you are married, whichever happens first.  Do you understand?”

Putting David aside (indeed, he seemed for the first time to forget the boy’s presence), he took her by the two hands and looked down into her face.  Apparently he read something there, something which startled him, almost shocked him.

Irresolute, alas!  Too late; for just then all the three Dalziel boys rushed into the house and the school-room, followed by their grandmother.  The old lady looked a good deal surprised, perhaps a little displeased, fro on to the other.

Mr. Roy perceived it, and recovered himself in an instant, letting go Fortune’s hands and placing himself in front of her, between her and Mrs. Dalziel.  Long afterward she remembered that trivial act—­remembered it with the tender gratitude of the protected toward the protector, if nothing more.

“You see, I came, as I told you I should, if possible, to bid Miss Williams good-by, and wee Davie.  They both kindly admitted me, and we have had half an hour’s merry chat, have we not Davie?  Now, my man, good-by.”  He took up the little fellow and kissed him, and then extended his hand.  “Good-by, Miss Williams.  I hope your little pupils will value you as you deserve.”

Then, with a courteous and formal farewell to the old lady, and a most uproarious one from the boys, he went to the door, but turned round, saying to the eldest boy, distinctly and clearly—­though she was at the farther end of the room, she heard, and was sure he meant her to hear every word: 

“By-the-by, Archy, there is something I was about to explain to Miss Williams.  Tell her I will write it.  She is quite sure to have a letter from me tomorrow—­no, on Tuesday morning.”