re at Dryburgh," he said. And I opened my eyes as if he had
jerked me back by the arm from the days of the Druids to the era of
motor-cars. And so he had--by the ear, not the arm. If Sir S. had spoken
to me then it would have been different. I begin to think he is going to
be the only Real Man in my world. But if I find that out, and he doesn't
think me the only Real Girl, what will become of me?

After we had done what Mrs. West, in her pretty little tinkling voice,
called "exhausting Dryburgh" (as if one could!) we went to Melrose, only
four miles away, to leave our luggage at a nice hotel and take rooms for
the night, before going on another mile and a half to Abbotsford. I
little thought what a surprise I should have by and by, owing to this
plan of action mapped out by Sir S.

The next thing that happened to us was seeing the many turreted house
built by the "Wizard of the North," when his wish was to found a great
Border family. He didn't realize then that he was founding a great
school of romance and that all the world would be his family in mind and
heart.

A book Basil had, said that the house was "ill-placed," but to me that
seemed a dull and unimaginative criticism. Nowadays people may think a
great deal about wide views from their windows; and if I ever build a
house with a fairy wand, that's what I shall choose to have myself. But
perhaps in Sir Walter's day the thing most sought for was a peaceful,
sheltered outlook all to yourself and your family, like a secret garden
of which only you had the key. Just such an outlook the Wizard had from
his windows; and of course what he most wished for was to bring the
singing Tweed into his secret garden, just as you coax a lovely wild
bird, if you can whistle its own notes, under the trees it loves.

Perhaps if Sir Walter had not been able to look out over his flowers and
hay-scented meadows to the friendly river, inspiration might have failed
him in his troubles. But, you see, he had that secret garden of his
soul; and when he was there it must have walled him into a region of
peace where worries could do no more than knock at the door.

Wandering over the big house with Mrs. James and Basil (the boys in the
background), I was glad, glad that Sir Walter had owned so many
treasures, and collected so many curiosities; yet I felt an undertone of
sadness even in the library (where the twenty thousand books are, given
back by those decent bodies, his creditors), a sa