She winced at the accusation, for it was true.  Beyond her daily domestic life, which she still carefully fulfilled, she had in truth forgotten every thing.  Outside people were ceasing to affect her at all.  What he liked, what he wanted to do, day by day—­whether he looked ill or well, happy or unhappy, only he rarely looked either—­this was slowly growing to be once more her whole world.  With a sting of compunction, and another, half of fear, save that there was nothing to dread, nothing that could affect any body beyond herself—­Miss Williams roused herself to give young Dalziel an especially hearty welcome, and to make his little visit as happy as possible.

Small need of that; he was bent on taking all things pleasantly.  Coming now near the end of a very creditable college career, being of age and independent, with the cozy little fortune that his old grandmother had left him, the young fellow was disposed to see every thing couleur de rose, and this feeling communicated itself to all his friends.

It was a pleasant time.  Often in years to come did that little knot of friends, old and young, look back upon it as upon one of those rare bright bits in life when the outside current of things moves smoothly on, while underneath it there may or may not be, but generally there is, a secret or two which turns the most trivial events into sweet and dear remembrances forever.

David’s days being few enough, they took pains not to lose one, but planned excursions here, there, and every where—­to Dundee, to Perth, to Elie, to Balcarras—­all together, children, young folks, and elders:  that admirable melange which generally makes such expeditions “go off” well.  Theirs did, especially the last one, to the old house of Balcarras, where they got admission to the lovely quaint garden, and Janetta sang “Auld Robin Gray” on the spot where it was written.

She had a sweet voice, and there seemed to have come into it a pathos which Fortune had never remarked before.  The touching, ever old, ever new story made the young people quite quiet for a few minutes; and then they all wandered away together, Helen promising to look after the two wild young Roys, to see that they did not kill themselves in some unforeseen way, as, aided and abetted by David and Janetta, they went on a scramble up Balcarras Hill.

“Will you go too?” said Fortune to Robert Roy.  “I have the provisions to see to; besides, I can not scramble as well as the rest.  I am not quite so young as I used to be.”

“Nor I,” he answered, as, taking her basket, he walked silently on beside her.

It was a curious feeling, and all to come out of a foolish song; but if ever she felt thankful to God from the bottom of her heart that she had said “No,” at once and decisively, to the good man who slept at peace beneath the church-yard elms, it was at that moment.  But the feeling and the moment passed by immediately.  Mr. Roy took up the thread of conversation where he had left it off—­it was some bookish or ethical argument, such as he would go on with for hours; so she listened to him in silence.  They walked on, the larks singing and the primroses blowing.  All the world was saying to itself, “I am young; I am happy;” but she said nothing at all.