early over. And while I
still cling to the subject, I have found out that he can sing as well as
paint. But the singing belongs to Sweetheart Abbey; and Ruthwell Cross
came before.

Mrs. James and Sir S. excited my interest in Galloway by telling me bits
from the "Raiders," then stopping in exciting places to talk of
something else. And somehow Galloway does seem a country where almost
anything might happen--big, sensational, historic things. There was
nothing gray to see except glimpses of the Solway, where the sea poured
in its resistless tide; and that was the gray of polished silver. I had
an impression of high hills, blunt in shape yet strangely dignified, and
wide-spreading moors which sent out exquisite smells like lovely unseen
messengers to meet us, as the car seemed to break through crystal walls
of wind. Here and there were piles of pansy-brown peat, ready for
burning. Children with heads wrapped in scarlet flame ran out of
cottages to stare at us. Sir S. actually admired their red hair. He
exclaimed suddenly, "By Jove, it's worth crossing the ocean to see that
glorious stuff again! It's the hair of Circe." I don't know when
anything has made me feel so much like a kitten that purrs over a dish
of cream. For you know the hair he loved was _just_ my colour, not a bit
less scarlet. What would Grandma say?

It rained once--sharp rain like thin daggers of glass stabbing our faces
as the car dashed through--and the wet road looked like a shining silver
ribbon flung down anyhow on purple velvet. The purple velvet was
heather, and I never saw any before we started on our trip, except a
little sad, tame heather in the garden of Hillard House--heather
moulting like a bird in a cage, with all the spirit of the moors gone
out of it. But this Galloway heather was real heather, the heather of
poetry; and I knew that by and by I was going to see the heather moon
rise over it. The very thought brought a thrill--and I was glad, as I
had it, that Mrs. West was somewhere else in her own car. She does so
damp you, somehow, in your high moments, and make you feel too young for
anybody to care for your crude little thrills or take them seriously.

When the rain stopped, it left a thin white mist floating over the
heather, until the sun broke out and the deep purple was lit to crimson,
like a running fire.

I'm not quite sure if all this happened before Ruthwell Church (called
Rivvel by the people near), but in my memory it is