er earnest request, relinquished his
right to that portion of his domain in her favour, for he ceased to
wish to make it one of his economies to have his cattle grazing there.

So it happened that though the pastoral valley had considerably changed
its face, and had much of its ruggedness smoothed away in the course of
years, this stretch of heather remained unreclaimed. It was still a
thoroughfare, but a very safe one now, for its only dwelling was a
grave.

On the day after Geordie's death Grace had gone to see the last
resting-place destined for him in the little village churchyard. It was
a dreary patch of ground which looked as if the suns ray's never
penetrated through its high walls on the graves below. Crumbling
grey-lichened headstones peeped dismally from among the long dank grass,
and the little paths were overgrown with weeds. Everywhere there were
traces of unloving carelessness of the dead. And though Grace knew full
well that the silent sleepers below little heeded this selfish
forgetfulness, these surroundings sent a chill to her heart. She thought
she should like all that was left here of her boy-friend to lie in
pleasanter places. Far better he should rest underneath the heathery
sod among the pleasant breezy knolls, consecrated by many a heavenward
thought of the lonely little herd-boy, and by faithful words spoken in
an accepted time to a wayward brother's heart. So Grace made her suit to
the old farmer at a time when his heart was softened, and he was not
unwilling to part with a spot written over with a stinging memory. Miss
Hume, without even consulting Mr. Graham, had agreed to the transfer of
the land; and so it happened that Grace, like the patriarch long ago, a
stranger and sojourner in the land, held as a possession a
burying-place.

The bright summer day had reached its dying hour when the little group
stood on the bank of the river. The yellow sunlight was merging into
deep orange and crimson, tinging with a wonderful variety of tints the
lower landscape. The rippling water looked as if a sudden cross current
of red wine had come flowing into it, and the little hillocks beyond,
golden with gorse, were steeped in the mellow light.

The children followed their mother and Jean, with awed faces and hushed
voices, along the little gleaming sheep-walk, fringed by sweet wild
thyme and dog violets, with tendrils of deerhorn moss flinging their
arms across the path. At length they came on a litt