"Oh," said Mrs. Nevis, "if you are troubled with spare cash and stay in the neighborhood long enough, she'll manage that. She has little enough to spend, poor woman. Why, sir, when she told me to show you the chapel, she said, 'Catherine,' she said, 'there's one Carnegie come out of the States--see if yon McTavish is not another.'" "She said that?" "She did so." "And how did you propose to go to work to find out, Mrs. Nevis?" "Oh," said she, "I've hinted broadly at the news that's required at headquarters. I can do no more." McTavish reflected, "Tell her," he said presently, "when you see her, that I'm not Carnegie, nor near it. But tell her that, as we Americans say, 'I've enough for two.'" "Oh," said Mrs. Nevis, "that would mean too much or too little to a Scot." "Call it, then," said McTavish, "several million pounds." "Several," Mrs. Nevis reflected. "Say--three," said McTavish. Mrs. Nevis sighed. "And where did you gather it all?" she asked. "Oh, from my father," said McTavish. "And it was given to him by the government." "Why?" she asked. "Not why," said he, "so much as how. You see, our government is passionately fond of certain people and makes them very rich. But it's perfectly fair, because at the same time it makes other people, of whom it is not fond, desperately poor. We call it protection," he said. "For instance, my government lets a man buy a Shetland wool sweater in Scotland for two dollars, and lets him sell it on Broadway for twenty dollars. The process makes that man rich in time, but it's perfectly fair, because it makes the man who has to buy the sweater poor." "But the fool doesn't have to buy it," said Mrs. Nevis. "Oh yes, he does," said McTavish; "in America--if he likes the look of it and the feel of it--he has to buy. It's the climate, I suppose." "Did your father make his money in Shetland sweaters?" she asked. "Nothing so nice," said McTavish; "rails." A covey of birds rose in the woods at their right with a loud whir of wings. "Whew!" exclaimed McTavish. "Baby pheasants," explained Mrs. Nevis. "They shoot three thousand at Brig O'Dread in the season." After certain difficulties, during which their hands touched, the greatest key in Mrs. Nevis's bunch was made to open the chapel door, and they went in. The place had no roof; the flagged floor had disappeared, and it had been replaced by velvety turf, level between the graves and headstones. Supporting columns reared themselves here and there, supporting nothing. A sturdy thorn tree grew against the left-hand wall; but the sun shone brightly into the ruin, and sparrows twittered pleasantly among the in-growths of ivy. "Will you wish to read all the inscriptions?" asked Mrs. Nevis, doubtfully, for there were hundreds of tombstones crowding the turf or pegged to the walls. "No, no," said McTavish "I see what I came to see--already."