That strange clear-sightedness, that absolute justice, of which Fortune had just spoken, were qualities she herself possessed to a remarkable, almost a painful, degree.  She could not deceive herself, even if she tried.  The more cruel the sight, the clearer she saw it; even as now she perceived a certain naturalness in the fact that a middle-aged man so often chooses a young girl in preference to those of his own generation, for she brings him that which he has not; she reminds him of what he used to have; she is to him like the freshness of spring, the warmth of summer, in his cheerless autumn days.  Sometimes these marriages are not unhappy—­far from it; and Robert Roy might ere long make such a marriage.  Despite poor David’s jealous contempt, he was neither old nor ugly, and then he was rich.

The thing, either as regarded Helen, or some other girl of Helen’s standing, appeared more than possible—­probable; and if so, what then?

Fortune looked out once, and saw that the little group at the laurel bush were still talking; then she slipped up stairs into her own room and bolted the door.

The first thing that she did was to go straight up and look at her own face in the glass—­her poor old face, which had never been beautiful, which she had never wished beautiful, except that it might be pleasant in one man’s eyes.  Sweet it was still, but the sweetness lay in its expression, pure and placid, and innocent as a young girl’s.  But she saw not that; she saw only its lost youth, its faded bloom.  She covered it over with both her hands, as if she would fain bury it out of sight; knelt down by her bedside, and prayed.

“Mr. Roy is waiting below ma’am—­has been waiting some time; but he says if you are busy he will not disturb you; he will come to-morrow instead.”

“Tell him I shall be very glad to see him to-morrow.”

She spoke through the locked door, too feeble to rise and open it; and then lying down on her bed and turning her face to the wall, from sheer exhaustion fell fast asleep.

People dream strangely sometimes.  The dream she dreamt was so inexpressibly soothing and peaceful, so entirely out of keeping with the reality of things, that it almost seemed to have been what in ancient times would be called a vision.

First, she thought that she and Robert Roy were little children—­mere girl and boy together, as they might have been from the few years’ difference in their ages—­running hand in hand about the sands of St. Andrews, and so fond of one another—­so very fond!  With that innocent love a big boy often has for a little girl, and a little girl returns with the tenderest fidelity.  So she did; and she was so happy—­they were both so happy.  In the second part of the dream she was happy still, but somehow she knew she was dead—­had been dead and in paradise for a long time, and was waiting for him to come there.  He was coming now; she felt him coming, and held out her hands, but he took and clasped her in his arms; and she heard a voice saying those mysterious words:  “In heaven they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God.”