"Yes," I answered. "Oh," she said, "then I wonder if ye ha’e sic a thing as a dream-book in your pack?" I opened the pack, and spread its contents before her. "No, I dinna want onything else but a dream-book," she said. I found one, and, lifting a corner of her apron, she produced a penny which she laid upon the table, and with a finger already between the pages of the book disappeared into the inn. Left to myself, I drifted into a reverie. Love--the love of a man for a woman, and the love of a woman for a man--seemed the greatest thing on the earth. The packman with his loved one at Locharbriggs; this tavern maid with her sweetheart--for did not her desire for a dream-book tell me that she had a lover--were all under its spell. I, too, had my memories of love,--memories of infinite tenderness--bitter--sweet--torn by tragedy. I tried to banish such thoughts from nay mind, for they brought naught but pain, but, try how I might, I found they would return. Nor was it to be wondered at, for at that moment I was within a stone’s throw of Devorgilla’s monument to her own enduring affection. I was within sight of the place where her haunting love-story had seen its fulfilment. Within the hoary walls of that great fane Devorgilla was sleeping her eternal sleep with the heart of her husband upon her breast. Yes, of a truth was it well said: "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it." Hector would go to the widow, the tavern maid would dream of her lover, while for me, love was nothing but a memory. But what a memory! I was conscious of Mary’s presence--her spirit seemed to enfold me in the warm breath of the evening. I almost felt her kiss upon my cheek. Never before, since that day when we had parted upon the moors, had she seemed so near. I slipped my hand into my pocket and caressed the fragment of her ring. I drew it out and pressed it to my lips, and as I did so I heard the stumping footsteps of the packman. Quickly I slipped the ring out of sight and looked towards the door. Hector came through, carrying a tankard of ale in each hand. "Drouthy work, carryin’ the pack," he said. "Ha’e ye sold onything while I ha’e been away?" "Only a dream-book to the little maid," I answered. "Sic trash," he groaned, "sic trash, but they will ha’e them. But wait a bit; I’m gaun to lay masel’ on in the back end o’ the year. Did ye no’ try to sell a pot o’ salve?" I confessed that I had not. "Man," he said, "ye’ll no’ mak’ a guid packman. I could aye sell a pot o’ the balm to a lassie that buys a dream-book. But come on: the licht’s juist richt for seein’ the Abbey at its best." *CHAPTER XXVII* *ON THE ROAD TO DUMFRIES*