hen we've seen that,
we'll take a trap and drive to the other places.'

'But that will cost a great deal,' said Gladys doubtfully, recalled for
the moment to the small economies it was her daily lot to practise.

'Perhaps; but we'll manage it, I daresay. It is impossible for us to
walk, so there's no use saying another word. Give me your arm.'

Gladys was ready in a moment. Never since the old fen days had she felt
so happy, because the green earth was beneath her feet, the trees waving
above her, the song of birds in her ears instead of the roar of city
streets. They did not talk as they walked, until they turned into the
quaint, wide street of the old-fashioned village; then it was as if the
cloak of his reserve fell from Abel Graham, and he became garrulous as
a boy over these old landmarks which he had never forgotten. He led
Gladys by way of Poosie Nancie's tavern, showed her its classic
interior, and then, turning into a little narrow lane, pointed out the
cottage where he and her father had been boys together.

It was the girl's turn to be silent. She was trying to picture the dear
father a boy at his mother's knee, or running in and out that low
doorway, or helping to swell the boyish din in the narrow street; and
when they turned to go, her eyes were wet with tears.

'I would rather have come here to-day, Uncle Abel, than anywhere else in
the whole wide world. But why did you wish to come? Did you take a
sudden longing to see the old place?'

'No; that was not my object at all. You will know what it was some day.
Now we'll go to the inn and get something to eat while they get our
machine ready. See, there's the old kirk; there's a lot of famous folk
buried in that kirkyard. We'd better go in, and I'll show you where I
want to be laid.'

They got the key of the churchyard gates, and, stepping across the
somewhat untidily kept graves, stood before an uneven mound, surrounded
by a very old mossgrown headstone.

'There's a name on it, child. You can't read it, but it doesn't matter,'
he said; but Gladys, bending down, brushed the tall grass from the
stone, and read the name, John Bourhill Graham of Bourhill, and his
spouse, Nancy Millar.

'Whose names are these, uncle--your father's and mother's?'

'Oh no; _they_ were not Grahams of Bourhill,' he answered dryly. 'That's
generations back.'

'But the same family?'

'I suppose so--yes. I see you would like to explore this place; but we
can't, it's not t