It was in a cemetery, by some strange chance, immured within the bulwarks of a prison; standing, besides, on the margin of a cliff, crowded with elderly stone memorials, and green with turf and ivy.

The east wind (which I thought too harsh for the old man) continually shook the boughs, and the thin sun of a Scottish summer drew their dancing shadows.
"I wanted ye to see the place," said he.

"Yon's the stane.

Euphemia Ross: that was my goodwife, your grandmither--hoots! I'm wrong; that was my first yin; I had no bairns by her;--yours is the second, Mary Murray, Born 1819, Died 1850: that's her--a fine, plain, decent sort of a creature, tak' her athegether.

Alexander Loudon, Born Seventeen Ninety-Twa, Died--and then a hole in the ballant: that's me.