She rose and walked quietly into the parlor, already shadowed into twilight: a neat, compact little person, dressed in soft gray homespun, with a pale pink bow on her throat, and another in her cap--a pretty little fabric of lace and cambric, which, being now the fashion, her girls had at last condescended to let her wear. She had on a black silk apron, with pockets, into one of which she had hastily thrust her work, and her thimble was yet on her finger. This was the figure on which the eyes of the gentleman rested as he turned around. Miss Williams lifted her eyes inquiringly to his face--a bearded face, thin and dark. "I beg your pardon, I have not the pleasure of knowing you; I--" She suddenly stopped. Something in the height, the turn of the head, the crisp dark hair, in which were not more than a few threads of gray, while hers had so many now, reminded her of--someone, the bare thought of whom made her feel dizzy and blind. "No," he said, "I did not expect you would know me; and indeed, until I saw you, I was not sure you were the right Miss Williams. Possibly you may remember my name--Roy, Robert Roy." Faces alter, manners, gestures; but the one thing which never changes is a voice. Had Fortune heard this one--ay, at her last dying hour, when all worldly sounds were fading away--she would have recognized it at once. The room being full of shadow, no one could see any thing distinctly; and it was as well. In another minute, she had risen, and held out her hand. "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Roy. How long have you been in England? Are these your little boys?" Without answering, he took her hand--a quiet friendly grasp, just as it used to be. And so, without another word, the gulf of fifteen--seventeen years was overleaped, and Robert Roy and Fortune Williams had met once more. If anybody had told her when she rose that morning what would happen before night, and happen so naturally, too, she would have said it was impossible. That, after a very few minutes, she could have sat there, talking to him as to any ordinary acquaintance, seemed incredible, yet it was truly so. "I was in great doubts whether the Miss Williams who, they told me, lived here was yourself or some other lady; but I thought I would take the chance. Because, were it yourself, I thought, for the sake of old times, you might be willing to advise me concerning my two little boys, whom I have brought to St. Andrews for their education." "Your sons, are they?" "No. I am not married." There was a pause, and then he told the little fellows to go and look out of the window, while he talked with Miss Williams. He spoke to them in a fatherly tone; there was nothing whatever of the young man left in him now. His voice was sweet, his manner grave, his whole appearance unquestionably "middle-aged."