poetical license, we say "we should hear in our graves," and though this
girl did not think of that, for death looked far off, and she was
scarcely a poetical person, still, many a morning, when, sitting at
her school-room window, she heard Mr. Roy coming steadily down the
gravel-walk, she was conscious of--something that people can not feel
twice in a life-time.

And now, when he approached with that kind smile of his, which brightened
into double pleasure when he saw who was waiting for him, she was aware
of a wild heartbeat, a sense of exceeding joy, and then of relief and
rest. He was "comfortable" to her. She could express it in no other
way. At sight of his face and at sound of his voice all worldly cares
and troubles, of which she had a good many, seemed to fall off. To be
with him was like having an arm to lean on, a light to walk by; and she
had walked alone so long.

"Good-afternoon, Miss Williams."

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Roy."

They said no more than that, but the stupidest person in the world might
have seen that they were glad to meet, glad to be together. Though
neither they nor any one else could have explained the mysterious fact,
the foundation of all love stories in books or in life--and which the
present author owns, after having written many books and seen a great
deal of life, is to her also as great a mystery as ever--Why do certain
people like to be together? What is the inexplicable attraction which
makes them seek one another, suit one another, put up with one another's
weaknesses, condone one another's faults (when neither are too great to
lessen love), and to the last day of life find a charm in one another's