s Burns and is out
of Crockett land. Still----"

"Sweetheart Abbey!" Mrs. James exclaimed rapturously. "It should be at
Sweetheart Abbey that Barrie dreams her first Scottish dreams."

The knight laughed rather bitterly for some reason. "Are Scottish dreams
different from other dreams?"

"Perhaps," said Mrs. James, "they are the dreams that come true."

VI

It is days later, it seems a long time ago that I wrote of our plan to
spend the first night in Scotland at Sweetheart Abbey--a long time since
the night itself; for I have lived more in these few days than in all my
life before.

Soon we are to reach Edinburgh. Monday is the day when my mother will
begin acting there in her new play. I shall see her. It is to be the
Great Day of all, the day to which all the others have been leading up,
and I ought to be perfectly happy. So I am! Still, there's one little
heavy spot in my heart. All the yeast of happiness won't make it light.
The beginning of the new means the end of the old. The trip will be
over--for me; though the Knight and the Gray Dragon will go on and have
hundreds of adventures without me. They will be my knight and my dragon
no longer. Perhaps I shall never see them again.

Before our days together slip away into the background of my mind (it
seems as if they never could!) I want to write down things about them to
keep and read when I am _old_.

First of all, there was Ruthwell Cross.

We went there from Annan; and as we flew along in the car over a good
white road, we could see across widening waters the mountains of the
English Lake country floating like a mirage along the southern sky,
Skiddaw with its twin peaks higher and bluer than the rest. How I love
the names of the Cumberland places and mountains! I made Sir S. say
Helvellyn and Blencathra and Glaramara over very slowly, just for the
music in my ears. And when his voice says a thing it sounds particularly
well. I like to hear it roll out such a word as Northumberland, for
instance. The way he says it makes you think of thunder on great
moorlands, or a rush of wild Scotsmen over the border. But the Celtic
names he speaks most lovingly, most softly, so that they ring on your
ear for a long time after they are spoken, like an echo of fairy bells.

I did not mean to write all this about him and his voice when I began.
There is so much else to say. Yet, somehow, I keep running back to him
in my thoughts, especially now the trip is n