n his money. Those who didn't care for his millions
of dollars would have read about his painting: and all would value him
because he belongs to Scotland.

As soon as our luggage was in our rooms and dinner ordered, Sir Somerled
inquired if we were ready for the Abbey; but Mrs. James mildly asked if
we would mind going without her. She had begun to realize that she was
tired, and would like to rest. She could go by herself to the Abbey
early in the morning before starting time. I felt that I ought to mind
more than I did, but I couldn't help liking to be with Sir S. alone. It
seemed like the night of our first meeting; for some one had always been
with us, more or less, ever since. It was only a short stroll through
the village, not enough to call a walk. A dear little lady who lives in
a nice cottage close to the ruin opened the iron gate, but she did not
go in with us, because it was time for her supper. She had a photograph
done from one of the great Somerled's most famous pictures, and if he
had been a long she could not have been more polite.

At first, the inside of the shell-like Abbey with the beautiful name was
a disappointment. The green grass was encumbered with tasteless graves
and flat modern stones which looked as if they had lain down there
without permission.

We wandered about rather forlornly for a while, until we found
Devorgilla's thirteenth-century tomb. Sir S. told me her history, and
waked the sad old place to living interest. I seemed to see the
ever-loving lady, followed by her chosen maidens carrying the heart in
its ebony and silver box. And together we made up a theory, that of
every event _something_ reminiscent lingers on the spot where it
happened. If only our eyes were different, we should be able, wherever
we went, to see filmy, mysterious pictures painted on air--fadeless,
moving photographs of all the people and all the deeds which have made
up the world's history.

This set us talking of our own pictures, which we are leaving behind us
as we go through life; and I couldn't help thinking how he and I, in
accordance with this idea, will for ever and ever go on being "married"
at Gretna Green. I laughed at the thought, and he asked me why, so I
told him.

"When you're marrying your real wife, years from now maybe, and have
forgotten my existence, that scene will still be enacting itself," I
said, "not only on the films the photograph men took, but on air films.
Doesn't it frighten