Grace’s boys and girls had all to be introduced by name to the smiling little matron, whose eye rested on them more or less appreciatively, as she recognised a likeness to their mother or their Uncle Walter.

Presently Grace turned to the little group, and said softly, “Children, would you like to come to the knolls of heather on the other side of the hill?  I am going there now.”

“Oh yes, mamma, I want to go,” chimed an eager though subdued chorus of voices; and then the childish feet followed the two mothers as they wandered slowly through the birch trees and crossed the path which led to the stepping-stones.  The water still splashed and gurgled noisily round them, and the knolls of heather stretched with unchanged contour on the other side.  Beyond rose the white gables and thatched roof of the old farm of Gowrie; but the former master and mistress were gone now; and the young farmer, who had taken the lease, chafed considerably that he had not been able to include the bit of heathery pasture lands in the fields, seeing it had been previously secured by another tenant.  It was the only piece of land owned by Grace in the valley, and through all these years of absence she had jealously guarded any encroachment upon her territory.  Old Gowrie had, at her earnest request, relinquished his right to that portion of his domain in her favour, for he ceased to wish to make it one of his economies to have his cattle grazing there.

So it happened that though the pastoral valley had considerably changed its face, and had much of its ruggedness smoothed away in the course of years, this stretch of heather remained unreclaimed.  It was still a thoroughfare, but a very safe one now, for its only dwelling was a grave.

On the day after Geordie’s death Grace had gone to see the last resting-place destined for him in the little village churchyard.  It was a dreary patch of ground which looked as if the suns ray’s never penetrated through its high walls on the graves below.  Crumbling grey-lichened headstones peeped dismally from among the long dank grass, and the little paths were overgrown with weeds.  Everywhere there were traces of unloving carelessness of the dead.  And though Grace knew full well that the silent sleepers below little heeded this selfish forgetfulness, these surroundings sent a chill to her heart.  She thought she should like all that was left here of her boy-friend to lie in pleasanter places.  Far better he should rest underneath the heathery sod among the pleasant breezy knolls, consecrated by many a heavenward thought of the lonely little herd-boy, and by faithful words spoken in an accepted time to a wayward brother’s heart.  So Grace made her suit to the old farmer at a time when his heart was softened, and he was not unwilling to part with a spot written over with a stinging memory.  Miss Hume, without even consulting Mr. Graham, had agreed to the transfer of the land; and so it happened that Grace, like the patriarch long ago, a stranger and sojourner in the land, held as a possession a burying-place.