this day, if recorded, would have been of the most feeble kind--brief,
fragmentary, mere comments on the things about them, or abstract remarks
not particularly clever or brilliant. They were neither of them what you
would call brilliant people; yet they were happy, and the hours flew by
like a few minutes, until they found themselves back again beside the
laurel bush at the gate, when Mr. Roy suddenly said:

"Do not go in yet. I mean, need you go in? It is scarcely past sunset;
the boys will not be home for an hour yet; they don't want you, and I--I
want you so. In your English sense," he added, with a laugh, referring
to one of their many arguments, scholastic or otherwise, wherein she had
insisted that to want meant _Anglice_, to wish or to crave, whereas in
Scotland it was always used like the French _manquer_, to miss or to
need.

"Shall we begin that fight over again?" asked she, smiling; for every
thing, even fighting, seemed pleasant today.

"No, I have no wish to fight; I want to consult you seriously on a purely
personal matter, if you would not mind taking that trouble."

Fortune looked sorry. That was one of the bad things in him (the best
man alive have their bad things), the pride which apes humility, the
self-distrust which often wounds another so keenly. Her answer was given
with a grave and simple sincerity that ought to have been reproach
enough.

"Mr. Roy, I would not mind any amount of trouble if I could be of use to
you; you know that."