boys being safe in bed, she rushed out into the garden under the silent
stars to sob, to moan, to speak out loud words which nobody could
possibly hear.

"He is going away, and I shall never see him again. And I love him
better than any thing in all this world. I couldn't help it--he couldn't
help it. But, oh! It's hard--hard!"

And then, altogether breaking down, she would begin to cry like a child.
She missed him so, even this week, after having for weeks and months been
with him every day; but it was less like a girl missing her lover--who
was, after all, not her lover--than a child mourning helplessly for
the familiar voice, the guiding, helpful hand. With all the rest of
the world Fortune Williams was an independent, energetic woman,
self-contained, brave, and strong, as a solitary governess had need to
be; but beside Robert Roy she felt like a child, and she cried for him
like a child,

"And with no language but a cry."

So the week ended and Sunday came, kept at Mrs. Dalziel's like the Scotch
Sundays of twenty years ago. No visitor ever entered the house, wherein
all the meals were cold and the blinds drawn down, as if for a funeral.
The family went to church for the entire day, St. Andrews being too far
off for any return home "between sermons." Usually one servant was left
in charge, turn and turn about; but this Sunday Mrs. Dalziel, having put
the governess in the nurse's place beside the ailing child, thought
shrewdly she might as well put her in the servant's place too, and let
her take charge of the kitchen fire as well as of little David. Being
English, Miss Williams was not so exact about "ordinances" as a Scotch