Thus the current of her whole life was changed; for when Mr. Moseley’s will was opened, it was found that, besides leaving Miss Williams a handsome legacy, carefully explained as being given “in gratitude for her care of his children,” he had chosen her as their guardian, until they came of age or married, entreating her to reside with them, and desiring them to pay her all the respect due to “a near and dear relative.”  The tenderness with which he had arranged every thing, down to the minutest points, for them and herself, even amidst all his bodily sufferings, and in face of the supreme hour—­which he had met, his daughters said, with a marvelous calmness, even joy—­touched Fortune as perhaps nothing had ever touched her in all her life before.  When she stood with her two poor orphans beside their father’s grave, and returned with them to the desolate house, vowing within herself to be too them, all but in name, the mother he had wished her to be, this sense of duty—­the strange new duty which had suddenly come to fill her empty life—­was so strong, that she forgot every thing else—­even Robert Roy.

And for months afterward—­months of anxious business, involving the leaving of the Rectory, and the taking of a temporary house in the village, until they could decide where finally to settle—­Miss Williams had scarcely a moment or a thought to spare for any beyond the vivid present.  Past and future faded away together, except so far as concerned her girls.

“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might,” were words which had helped her through many a dark time.  Now, with all her might, she did her motherly duty to the orphan girls; and as she did so, by-and-by she began strangely to enjoy it, and to find also not a little of motherly pride and pleasure in them.  She had not time to think of herself at all, or of the great blow which had fallen, the great change which had come, rendering it impossible for her to let herself feel as she had used to feel, dream as she used to dream, for years and years past.  That one pathetic line

“I darena think o’ Jamie, for that wad be a sin,” burned itself into her heart, and needed nothing more.

“My children!  I must only love my children now,” was her continual thought, and she believed she did so.

It was not until spring came, healing the girls’ grief as naturally as it covered their father’s grave with violets and primroses, and making them cling a little less to home and her, a little more to the returning pleasures of their youth, for they were two pretty girls, well-born, with tolerable fortunes, and likely to be much sought after—­not until the spring days left her much alone, did Fortune’s mind recur to an idea which had struck her once, and then been set aside—­to write to Robert Roy.  Why should she not?  Just a few friendly lines, telling him how, after long years, she had seen his name in the papers; how sorry she was, and