to praise, his favorite author.

"Interesting old illustrations these are," said Davenport, taking up
another volume. "Dryburgh Abbey--that's how it looks on a gray day. I
was lucky enough to see it in the sunshine; it's loveliest then."

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Bud. "You been to Dryburgh Abbey?--to Scott's
grave?"

"Oh, yes," said Davenport, smiling at the old man's joyous wonder, which
was about the same as he might have shown upon meeting somebody who had
been to fairy-land, or heaven, or some other place equally far from New
York.

"You don't say! Well, to think of it! I _am_ happy to meet you. By
George, I never expected to get so close to Sir Walter Scott! And maybe
you've seen Abbotsford?"

"Oh, certainly. And Scott's Edinburgh house in Castle Street, and the
house in George Square where he lived as a boy and met Burns."

Mr. Bud's excitement was great. "Maybe you've seen Holyrood Palace, and
High Street--"

"Why, of course. And the Canongate, and the Parliament House, and the
Castle, and the Grass-market, and all the rest. It's very easy; thousands
of Americans go there every year. Why don't you run over next summer?"

The old man shook his head. "That's all too fur away from home fur me.
The women are afraid o' the water, and they'd never let me go alone. I