ion upon him. As for him, Gladys herself had not
the remotest idea how he regarded her, did not dream that she had
awakened in his withered heart a slow and all-absorbing affection, the
strength of which surprised himself. He bade her stand back while he
went to the booking-office for the tickets, and they were in the train
before she repeated her question regarding their destination.

'I think it would only be fair, Uncle Abel, if you told me now where we
are going,' she said playfully.

For answer, he held out the ticket to her, and in amazement she read
'Mauchline' on it. The colour flushed all over her face, and she looked
at him with eager, questioning eyes.

'Oh, Uncle Abel, what does it mean? Why are you going there to-day? I
cannot understand it.'

'I have my reasons, Gladys. You will know them, perhaps, sooner than you
think.'

'Is it a long journey, uncle? I am so afraid for you. Let me shut the
window up quite. And are we really, really going into Ayrshire at last?'

She was full of excitement as a child. She sat close to the window, and
when the train had left the city behind, looked out with eagerest
interest on the wintry landscape.

'Oh, Uncle Abel, it is so beautiful to see it, the wide country, and the
sky above it so clear and lovely. Oh, there is room to breathe!'

'I am sure it looks wintry and bleak enough,' the old man answered, with
a grunt. 'I don't see much beauty in it myself.'

'How strange! To me it is wholly beautiful. Is this Ayrshire yet? Tell
me when we come to Ayrshire.'

A slow smile was on the old man's face as he looked and listened. He
enjoyed her young enthusiasm, but it seemed to awaken in him some sadder
thought, for once he sighed heavily, and drew himself together as if he
felt cold, or some bitter memory smote him.

In little more than an hour the train drew up at the quiet country
station, and Gladys was told they had reached their journey's end. It
was a lovely spring morning; the sun shone out cheerfully from a mild,
bright sky, the air was laden with the awakening odours of spring, and
the spirit of life seemed to be everywhere.

'Now, my girl, we have a great deal to do to-day,' said the old man,
when they had crossed the footbridge. 'What do you want most to see
here?'

'Mossgiel and Ballochmyle, and the house where you lived in Mauchline.'

'We'll go to that first; it's not a great sight, I warn you--only a
whitewashed, thatched cottage in a by-street. W