By this time they had left their position by the laurel bush, and were walking along side by side, according as he had suggested.  This silent, instinctive acquiescence in what he wished done—­it had happened once or twice before, startling her a little at herself; for, as I have said, Miss Williams was not at all the kind of person to do every thing that every body asked her, without considering whether it was right or wrong.  She could obey, but it would depend entirely upon whom she had to obey, which, indeed, makes the sole difference between loving disciples and slavish fools.

It was a lovely day, one of those serene autumn days peculiar to Scotland—­I was going to say Saint Andrews; and any one who knows the ancient city will know exactly how it looks in the still, strongly spiritualized light of such an afternoon, with the ruins, the castle, cathedral, and St. Regulus’s tower standing out sharply against the intensely blue sky, and on the other side—­on both sides—­the yellow sweep of sand curving away into the distance, and melting into the sunshiny sea.

Many a time, in their prescribed walks with their young tribe, Miss Williams and Mr. Roy had taken this stroll across the Links and round by the sands to the mouth of the Eden, leaving behind them a long and sinuous track of many footsteps, little and large, but now there were only two lines—­“foot-prints on the sands of Time,” as he jestingly called them, turning round and pointing to the marks of the dainty feet that walked so steadily and straightly beside his own.

“They seem made to go together, those two tracks,” said he.

Why did he say it?  Was he the kind of man to talk thus without meaning it?  If so, alas! she was not exactly the woman to be thus talked to.  Nothing fell on her lightly.  Perhaps it was her misfortune, perhaps even her fault, but so it was.

Robert Roy did not “make love;” not at all.  Possibly he never could have done it in the ordinary way.  Sweet things, polite things were very difficult to him either to do or to say.  Even the tenderness that was in him came out as if by accident; but, oh! how infinitely tender he could be!  Enough to make any one who loved him die easily, quietly, if only just holding his hand.

There is an incident in Dickens’s touching Tale of two Cities, where a young man going innocent to the guillotine, and riding on the death-cart with a young girl whom he had never before seen, is able to sustain and comfort her, even to the last awful moment, by the look of his face and the clasp of his hand.  That man, I have often thought, must have been something not unlike Robert Roy.

Such men are rare, but they do exist; and it was Fortune’s lot, or she believed it was, to have found one.  That was enough.  She went along the shining sands in a dream of perfect content, perfect happiness, thinking—­and was it strange or wrong that she should so think?—­that if it were God’s will she should thus walk through life, the thorniest path would seem smooth, the hardest road easy.  She had no fear of life, if lived beside him; or of death—­love is stronger than death; at least this sort of love, of which only strong natures are capable, and out of which are made, not the lyrics, perhaps, but the epics, the psalms, or the tragedies of our mortal existence.