he most cheerful occupation, anyhow. Come on, let us to
the inn.'

The lavish manner in which her uncle spent his money that day amazed
Gladys, but she made no remark. Immediately after their hot and abundant
dinner at the inn, they drove to the places Burns has immortalised, and
which Gladys had so long yearned to see. Ballochmyle, in lovely spring
dress, so far exceeded her expectation that she had no words wherein to
express her deep enjoyment.

'Do not let us hurry away, uncle,' she pleaded, as they wandered through
the wooded glades, 'unless you are very tired. It is so warm and
pleasant, and it cannot be very late.'

'It is not late, half-past two only; but I want you to see Bourhill,
where our forbears lived when we had them worth mentioning,' he said
grimly. 'Did your father never speak to you about Bourhill?'

'No, never, Uncle Abel. I am quite sure I never heard the name until I
read it to-day in the churchyard.'

'I will tell you why. He had a dream--a foolish one it proved--a dream
that he might one day restore the name Graham of Bourhill again. He
hoped to make a fortune by his pictures, but it was a vain delusion.'

A shadow clouded the bright face of Gladys as she listened to these
words.

'This place, Bourhill, is it an estate, or what?' she asked.

'Not now. A hundred years ago it had some farms, and was a fair enough
patrimony, but it's all squandered long syne.'

'How?'

'Oh, drink and gambling, and such-like. My grandfather, David Graham,
kent the taste of Poosie Nancie's whisky too well to look after his ain,
and it slipped through his fingers like a knotless thread.'

He had become even more garrulous, and unearthed from the storehouse of
his memory a wealth of reminiscences of those old times, mingled with
many bits of personal history, which Gladys listened to with breathless
interest. She had never seen him so awakened, so full of life and
vigour; she could only look at him in amazement. They drove leisurely
through the pleasant spring sunshine over the wide, beautiful country,
past fields where the wheat was green and strong, and others where
sowing was progressing merrily--sights and sounds dear to Gladys, who
had no part nor lot in cities.

'Oh, Uncle Abel, Ayrshire is lovely. Look at these low green hills in
the distance, and the woods everywhere. I do not wonder that Burns could
write poetry here. There is poetry everywhere.'

'Ay, to your eyes, because you are young and kno