’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 know no better.  Look, away over yonder, as far as your eyes can see, is the sea.  If it was a little clearer you would see the ships in Ayr Harbour; and down there lies Tarbolton; away over there, the way we have come, Kilmarnock.  And do you see that little wooded hill about two miles ahead to the left?  Among these trees lies Bourhill.’

’It is a long drive to it, Uncle Abel.  I hope it has not tired you very much?’

’No, no; I’m all right.  We’ll drive up the avenue to the house and back.  I want you to see it.’

‘Does nobody live in it?’

‘Not just now.’

Another fifteen minutes brought them to an unpretending iron gateway, which gave entrance to an avenue of fine old trees.  The gate stood open, and though a woman ran out from the lodge when the trap passed, she made no demur.

The avenue was nearly half a mile in length, and ended in a sharp curve, which brought them quite suddenly before the house—­a plain, square, substantial family dwelling, with a pillared doorway and long wide windows, about which crept ivy of a century’s growth.  It was all shut up, and the gravel sweep before the door was overgrown with moss and weeds, the grass on the lawns, which stretched away through the shrubberies, long and rank; yet there was a homely look about it too, as if a slight touch could convert it into a happy home.

’This is Bourhill, my girl; and whatever ambitions your father may have had in later years, it was once his one desire to buy it back to the Grahams.  Do you like the place?’

‘Yes, uncle; but it is very desolate—­it makes me sad.’

‘It will not be long so,’ he said; and, drawing himself together with a quick shiver, he bade the driver turn the horses’ heads.  But before the house vanished quite from view he cast his gaze back upon it, and in his eye there was a strange, even a yearning glance.  ’It will not be long so,’ he repeated under his breath,—­’not long; and it will be a great atonement.’

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

DARKENING DAYS.

In the night Gladys was awakened by her uncle’s voice sharply calling her name, and when she hastened to him she found him in great pain, and breathing with the utmost difficulty.  Her presence of mind did not desert her.  She had often seen her father in a similar state, and knew exactly what to do.  In a few minutes she had a blazing fire, and the kettle on; then she ran to awaken Walter, so that he might go for the doctor.  The simple remedies experience had taught the girl considerably eased the old man, and when the doctor came he found him breathing more freely.  But his face was quite grave after his examination was made.