On the morning of the day we started from beloved Dunfermline, in the
omnibus that ran upon the coal railroad to Charleston, I remember that
I stood with tearful eyes looking out of the window until Dunfermline
vanished from view, the last structure to fade being the grand and
sacred old Abbey. During my first fourteen years of absence my thought
was almost daily, as it was that morning, "When shall I see you
again?" Few days passed in which I did not see in my mind's eye the
talismanic letters on the Abbey tower--"King Robert The Bruce." All my
recollections of childhood, all I knew of fairyland, clustered around
the old Abbey and its curfew bell, which tolled at eight o'clock every
evening and was the signal for me to run to bed before it stopped. I
have referred to that bell in my "American Four-in-Hand in
Britain"[10] when passing the Abbey and I may as well quote from it
now:

[Footnote 10: _An American Four-in-Hand in Britain_. New York, 1886.]

As we drove down the Pends I was standing on the front seat
of the coach with Provost Walls, when I heard the first toll
of the Abbey bell, tolled in honor of my mother and myself.
My knees sank from under me, the tears came rushing before I
knew it, and I turned round to tell the Provost that I must
give in. For a moment I felt as if I were about to faint.
Fortunately I saw that there was no crowd before us for a
little distance. I had time to regain control, and biting my
lips till they actually bled, I murmured to myself, "No
matter, keep cool, you must go on"; but never can there come
to my ears on earth, nor enter so deep into my soul, a sound
that shall haunt and subdue me with its sweet, gracious,