She had come to that point in life when we cease to be “afraid of evil tidings,” since nothing is likely to happen to us beyond what has happened.  She told herself that she did not look forward to the answer from Shanghai, if indeed any came; nevertheless, she had ascertained what time the return mail would be likely to bring it.  And, almost punctual to the day, a letter arrived with the postmark, “Shanghai.”  Not his letter, nor his handwriting at all.  And, besides, it was addressed to “Mrs. Williams.”

A shudder of fear, the only fear which could strike her now—­that he might be dead—­made Fortune stand irresolute a moment, then go up to her own room before she opened it.

“Madam,—­I beg to apologize for having read nearly through your letter before comprehending that it was not meant for me, but probably for another Mr. Robert Roy, who left this place not long after I came here, and between whom and myself some confusion arose, till we became intimate, and discovered that we were most likely distant, very distant cousins.  He came from St. Andrews, and was head clerk in a firm here, doing a very good business in tea and silk, until they mixed themselves up in the opium trade, which Mr. Roy, with one or two more of our community here, thought so objectionable that at last he threw up his situation and determined to seek his fortunes in Australia.  It was a pity, for he was in a good way to get on rapidly, but everybody who knew him agreed it was just the sort of thing he was sure to do, and some respected him highly for doing it.  He was indeed what we Scotch call ‘weel respeckit’ wherever he went.  But he was a reserved man; made few intimate friends, though those he did make were warmly attached to him.  My family were; and though it is now five years since we have heard anything of or from him, we remember him still.”

Five years!  The letter dropped from her hands.  Lost and found, yet found and lost.  What might not have happened to him in five years?  But she read on, dry-eyed:  women do not weep very much or very easily at her age.

“I will do my utmost, madam, that your letter shall reach the hands for which I am sure it was intended; but that may take some time, my only clue to Mr. Roy’s whereabouts being the branch house at Melbourne.  I can not think he is dead, because such tidings pass rapidly from one to another in our colonial communities, and he was too much beloved for his death to excite no concern.

“I make this long explanation because it strikes me you may be a lady, a friend or relative of Mr. Roy’s, concerning whom he employed me to make some inquiries, only you say so very little—­absolutely nothing—­of yourself in your letter, that I can not be at all certain if you are the same person.  She was a governess in a family named Dalziel, living at St. Andrews.  He said he had written to that family repeatedly, but got no answer, and then asked