It was all Sweetheart's fault, and this is how it came about. She and I were at Dryburgh Abbey, sitting quietly on a rustic seat, and looking toward the aisle in which slept the Great Dead. The long expected had happened, and we had made pilgrimage to our Mecca. Yet, in spite of the still beauty of the June day, I could see that a shadow lay upon our Sweetheart's brow. "Oh, I know he was great," she burst out at last, "and what you read me out of the Life was nice. I like hearing about Sir Walter-but-" I knew what was coming. "But what?" I said, looking severely at the ground, so that I might be able to harden my heart against the pathos of Sweetheart's expression.