"Did your father make his money in Shetland sweaters?" she asked.
"Nothing so nice," said McTavish; "rails."
A covey of birds rose in the woods at their right with a loud whir of wings.
"Whew!" exclaimed McTavish.
"Baby pheasants," explained Mrs. Nevis. "They shoot three thousand at
Brig O'Dread in the season."
After certain difficulties, during which their hands touched, the greatest key in Mrs. Nevis's bunch was made to open the chapel door, and they went in.
The place had no roof; the flagged floor had disappeared, and it had been replaced by velvety turf, level between the graves and headstones. Supporting columns reared themselves here and there, supporting nothing. A sturdy thorn tree grew against the left-hand wall; but the sun shone brightly into the ruin, and sparrows twittered pleasantly among the in-growths of ivy.
"Will you wish to read all the inscriptions?" asked Mrs. Nevis, doubtfully, for there were hundreds of tombstones crowding the turf or pegged to the walls.
"No, no," said McTavish "I see what I came to see—already."
For the first time the enigmatic smile left his face, and she watched him with a kind of excited interest as he crossed the narrow houses of the dead and halted before a small tablet of white marble. She followed him, more slowly, and stood presently at his side as he read aloud: