woman would have been; so Mrs. Dalziel had no hesitation in asking her to
remain at home alone the whole day in charge of her pupil.

Thus faded, Fortune thought, her last hope of seeing Robert Roy again,
either at church--where he usually sat in the Dalziel pew, by the old
lady's request, to make the boys "behave"--or walking down the street,
where he sometimes took the two eldest to eat their "piece" at his
lodgings. All was now ended; yet on the hope--or dread--of this last
Sunday she had hung, she now felt with what intensity, till it was gone.

Fortune was the kind of woman who, were it given her to fight, could
fight to the death, against fate or circumstances; but when her part was
simply passive, she could also endure. Not, as some do, with angry grief
or futile resistance, but with a quiet patience so complete that only a
very quick eye would have found out she was suffering at all.

Little David did not, certainly. When hour after hour, she sat by his
sofa, interesting him as best she could in the dull "good" books which
alone were allowed of Sundays, and then passing into word-of-mouth
stories--the beautiful Bible stories over which her own voice trembled
while she told them--Ruth, with her piteous cry, "Whither thou goest, I
will go; where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried;"
Jonathan, whose soul "clave to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him
as his own soul"--all these histories of passionate fidelity and agonized
parting--for every sort of love is essentially the same--how they went to
her heart.

Oh, the awful quietness of that Sunday, that Sabbath which was not rest,
in which the hours crawled on in sunshiny stillness, neither voices nor
steps nor sounds of any kind breaking the death-like hush of everything.