r. Dishart looked as if he would like to knock
two little heads together, but he walked away without doing it.

"Never mind," Tommy whispered hoarsely to Elspeth. "Never mind, Elspeth,
you have me yet."

This consolation seldom failed to gladden her, but her disappointment
was so sharp to-day that she would not even look up.

"Come away to the cemetery, it's grand," he said; but still she would
not be comforted.

"And I'll let you hold my hand--as soon as we're past the houses," he
added.

"I'll let you hold it now," he said eventually; but even then Elspeth
cried dismally, and her sobs were hurting him more than her.

He knew all the ways of getting round Elspeth, and when next he spoke it
was with a sorrowful dignity. "I didna think," he said, "as yer wanted
me never to be able to speak again; no, I didna think it, Elspeth."

She took her hands from her face and looked at him inquiringly.

"One of the stories mamma telled me and Reddy," he said, "were about a
man what saw such a beauty thing that he was struck dumb with
admiration. Struck dumb is never to be able to speak again, and I wish I
had been struck dumb when you wanted it."

"But I didn't want it!" Elspeth cried.

"If Thrums had been one little bit beautier than it is," he went on
solemnly, "it would have struck me dumb. It would have hurt me sore, but
what about that, if it pleased you!"

Then did Elspeth see what a wicked girl she had been, and when next the
two were observed by the curious (it was on the cemetery road), they
were once more looking cheerful. At the smallest provocation they
exchanged notes of admiration, such as, "Oh, Tommy, what a bonny
barrel!" or "Oh, Elspeth, I tell yer that's a dyke, and there's just
walls in London," but sometimes Elspeth would stoop hastily, pretending
that she wanted to tie her bootlace, but really to brush away a tear,
and there were moments when Tommy hung very limp. Each was trying to
deceive the other for the other's sake, and one of them was never good
at deception. They saw through each other, yet kept up the chilly game,
because they could think of nothing better, and perhaps the game was
worth playing, for love invented it.

They sat down on their mother's grave. No stone was ever erected to the
memory of Jean Myles, but it is enough for her that she lies at home.
That comfort will last her to the Judgment Day.

The man who had dug the grave sent them away, and they wandered to the
hill, and