Jean shook her head.
"That wouldn't be easy. It's the most wonderful place … like a dream.
Look at it now in the afternoon light, pale gold like honey. And the odd
thing is it's in the very heart of England, and yet it might almost be
Scotland."
"I thought that would appeal to you. Will you learn to love it, do you think?"
"I shan't have to learn. I love it already."
"And feel it home?"
"Yes … but, Biddy, there's just one thing. I shall love our home with all my heart and be absolutely content here if you promise me one thing—that when I die I'll be taken to Priorsford…. I know it's nonsense. I know it doesn't matter where the pickle dust that was me lies, but I don't think I could be quite happy if I didn't know that one day I should lie within sound of Tweed…. You're laughing, Biddy."
"My darling, like you I've sometimes wondered what people talked about on their honeymoon, but never in my wildest imaginings did I dream that they talked of where they would like to be buried."
Jean hid an abashed face for a moment against her husband's sleeve; then she looked up at him and laughed.
"It sounds mad—but I mean it," she said.
"It's all the fault of your Great-aunt Alison. Tell me, Jean, girl—no,
I'm not laughing—how will this day look from your death-bed?"