illa who built the Abbey of Dolce Cor to be a big
sacred box for the heart of her husband had had a worthier object of
worship than the king, John Balliol. All the history I have ever read
makes him out to be a weak and cowardly and rather treacherous person;
but, as Sir S. said, "Mirabeau judged by the people and Mirabeau judged
by his friends were two men"; and I suppose John must have put himself
out to be charming to Devorgilla, or she wouldn't have wandered about
with his heart in an ebony box inlaid with silver, and insisted on
having it on the table in front of her when she ate her dinner. That was
one way of keeping her husband's heart during her whole lifetime--and
even after death, for of course she had it buried with her. It must have
been glad of a little rest by that time, the poor heart, for it had so
much travelling to do. I suppose it even went as far as Oxford when
Devorgilla founded Balliol College.

The last shaft of the sun was turned off the rose-coloured ruin and the
secluded valley where the cross-shaped Abbey hides from the world; and
the moon was gone, too, swept away like a tiny boat on a wave of sunset.
Still, it was full daylight, and Sir S. announced that he had a plan.
This plan was for us to go (as soon as we'd seen our rooms, which he had
engaged by telegram) and get permission to enter the Abbey by twilight,
when no one else was there.

The little gray inn of the town looked no bigger than a good-sized
private house, but it was the very first hotel of my life, and I
regarded it as an Epoch, with a capital E. That point of view was upheld
later by the heavenly scones and honey they gave us--heather honey, gold
as the heather moon. And we had cool, clean rooms, suitable for the
dreaming of sweet dreams. _My_ dreams there seemed very important.

The great Somerled can of course get anything he wants to ask for if he
chooses to reveal himself--anyhow, in Scotland; because already I am
beginning to learn that even the smallest or humblest Scottish peasant
knows all that's worth knowing, not only of the past but of the present,
and has heard of all the celebrities. Maybe there might be miniature
places in England, America, Germany, or France where the poor and
uneducated would know nothing of Somerled the painter and millionaire.
But in Scotland, apparently, though there are many poor, there are no
uneducated persons. Those to whom his being a painter would mean nothing
would be interested i