It was out now, out with a burning blush over all the lad’s honest face, and the sudden crick-crack of a pretty Indian paper-cutter he unfortunately was twiddling in his fingers.  Miss Williams must have been blind indeed not to have guessed the state of the case.

“What!  Janetta?  Oh, David!” was all she said.

He nodded.  “Yes, that’s it, just it.  I thought you must have found it out long ago:  though I kept myself to myself pretty close, still you might have guessed.”

“I never did.  I had not the remotest idea.  Oh, how remiss I have been!  It is all my fault.”

“Excuse me, I can not see that it is any body’s fault, or any body’s misfortune, either,” said the young fellow, with a not unbecoming pride.  “I hope I should not be a bad husband to any girl, when it comes to that.  But it has not come; I have never said a single word to her.  I wanted to be quite clear of Oxford, and in a way to win my own position first.  And really we are so very jolly together as it is.  What are you smiling for?”

She could not help it.  There was something so funny in the whole affair.  They seemed such babies, playing at love; and their love-making, if such it was, had been carried on in such an exceedingly open and lively way, not a bit of tragedy about it, rather genteel comedy, bordering on farce.  It was such a contrast to—­certain other love stories that she had known, quite buried out of sight now.

Gentle “Auntie”—­the grave maiden lady, the old hen with all these young ducklings who would take to the water so soon—­held out her hand to the impetuous David.

“I don’t know what to say to you, my boy:  you really are little more than a boy, and to be taking upon yourself the responsibilities of life so soon!  Still, I am glad you have said nothing to her about it yet.  She is a mere child, only eighteen.”

“Quite old enough to marry, and to marry Mr. Roy even, the St. Andrews folks think.  But I won’t stand it.  I won’t tamely sit by and see her sacrificed.  He might persuade her; he has a very winning way with him sometimes.  Auntie, I have not spoken, but I won’t promise not to speak.  It is all very well for you; you are old, and your blood runs cold, as you said to us one day—­no, I don’t mean that; you are a real brick still, and you’ll never be old to us, but you are not in love, and you can’t understand what it is to be a young fellow like me to see an old fellow like Roy coming in and just walking over the course.  But he sha’nt do it!  Long ago, when I was quite a lad, I made up my mind to get her; and get her I will, spite of Mr. Roy or any body.”

Fortune was touched.  That strong will which she too had had, able, like faith, to “remove mountains,” sympathized involuntarily with the lad.  It was just what she would have said and done, had she been a man and loved a woman.  She gave David’s hand a warm clasp, which he returned.