any one would have called her pretty, until he or she had learned to love
her. For there are two distinct kinds of love, one in which the eye
instructs the heart, and the other in which the heart informs and guides
the eye. There have been men who, seeing an unknown beautiful face, have
felt sure it implied the most beautiful soul in the world, pursued it,
worshiped it, wooed and won it, found the fancy true, and loved the woman
forever. Other men there are who would simply say, "I don't know if such
a one is handsome or not; I only know she is herself--and mine." Both
loves are good; nay, it is difficult to say which is best. But the
latter would be the most likely to any one who became attached to Fortune
Williams.

Also, perhaps to Robert Roy, though no one expects good looks in his sex;
indeed, they are mostly rather objectionable. Women do not usually care
for a very handsome man; and men are prone to set him down as conceited.
No one could lay either charge to Mr. Roy. He was only an honest-looking
Scotchman, tall and strong and manly. Not "red," in spite of his name,
but dark-skinned and dark-haired; in no way resembling his great
namesake, Rob Roy Macgregor, as the boys sometimes called him behind
his back--never to his face. Gentle as the young man was, there was
something about him which effectually prevented any one's taking the
smallest liberty with him. Though he had been a teacher of boys ever
since he was seventeen--and I have heard one of the fraternity confess
that it is almost impossible to be a school-master for ten years without
becoming a tyrant--still it was a pleasant and sweet-tempered face. Very
far from a weak face, though; when Mr. Roy said a thing must be done,
every one of his boys knew it _must_ be done, and there was no use saying
any more about it.

He had unquestionably that rare gift, the power of authority; though this