through the opening into the royal burying-ground.

'This way, ladies and gentlemen,' cried the hurrying guide, and they
all clattered over the stone pavement. He stopped beside a tomb upon
which a lady with a sad worn face was lying. 'Mary, Queen of Scots,'
said he, 'the greatest beauty of her day. This monument was erected
by her son, James the First.'

'Isn't she just perfectly sweet?' said one of the American girls.

'Well, I don't know. I expected more of her than that,' the other
answered.

'I reckon,' remarked the father, 'that if any one went through as
much as that lady did, it would not tend to improve her beauty. Now
what age might the lady be, sir?'

'Forty-four years of age at the time of her execution,' said the
guide.

'Ah weel, she's young for her years,' muttered the Scotchman, and the
party moved on. Frank and Maude lingered to have a further look at
the unfortunate princess, the bright French butterfly, who wandered
from the light and warmth into that grim country, a land of blood and
of psalms.

'She was as hard as nails under all her gentle grace,' said Frank.
'She rode eighty miles and hardly drew rein after the battle of
Langside.'