IT was all Sweetheart's fault, and this is how it came about.
She and I were at Dryburgh Abbey, sitting quietly on a rustic seat, and
looking toward the aisle in which slept the Great Dead. The long
expected had happened, and we had made pilgrimage to our Mecca. Yet, in
spite of the still beauty of the June day, I could see that a shadow lay
upon our Sweetheart's brow.
"Oh, I know he was great," she burst out at last, "and what you read me
out of the _Life_ was nice. I like hearing about Sir Walter--but--"