tians, and turned
farmers instead of sea-robbers."

"Perhaps the monks went back to the abbey afterwards and taught them,"
suggested Isobel. "I always thought they must have felt so ashamed of
themselves for running away. They couldn't all be saints like St.
Alcuin, but they might do their best to make up."

"No doubt they did. They were brave men in those days, who were not
afraid to risk their lives. It is possible that a small chapel may have
been built here once, though the very memory of it has passed away."

"Is some one buried here, then?"

"Yes. Put into English characters, the inscription runs: '_Ulf suarti
risti krus thana aft Fiak sun sin_.' That is to say: '_Black Ulf raised
this cross for Fiak his son_.'"

"I wish we knew who they were," said Isobel. "The son must have died
first. Perhaps he was killed in battle, and then his father would put up
this cross. How very sorry he must have felt!"

"Very," said the colonel sadly--"especially if he were his only son. It
is hard to see the green bough taken while the old branch is spared."

"My father died fighting," said Isobel softly. "But his grave is ever so
far away in South Africa."

"And so is my son's. Death reaps his harvest, and hearts are as sore,
whether it is the twentieth century or the tenth. Customs change very
little. We put up monuments to show the resting-places of those we love,
and a thousand years ago Black Ulf raised this cross that Fiak his son
should not be forgotten."

"And he's not forgotten," said Isobel, "because we've found it all this
long time afterwards. I didn't know what it meant until you told me. I'm
so glad I can read it now. I want to tell mother; she likes old
monuments, or any kind of old things."

"She has evidently taught you to think and to use your eyes," said the
colonel, "or you would not have copied the inscription, and then I might
never have discovered the stone."

"What a pity that would have been!" returned Isobel. "I was very lucky
to find it. Do you think it makes up a little for the maidenhair?"

"Completely; though, remember, I didn't blame you for that incident. It
was your friends--the same young ruffians, I believe, who are racing up
the sands now, dragging some carcass behind them."

"Oh! they're coming back for tea," cried Isobel. "And I forgot all about
the kettle! I hope it hasn't boiled away. I ought to go. You haven't
told me yet, please, what you would like us to bring you instead of r