w down my pen; I leave my chair and seat myself on the bearskin
beside the ample fireplace and begin toying with Orla, my deerhound.

'Aunt, play and sing a little; it will inspire me.'

She needs no second bidding. She bends over the great harp and lightly
touches a few chords.

'What shall I play or sing?'

'Play and sing as you feel, aunt.'

'I feel thus,' my aunt says, and her fingers fly over the strings,
bringing forth music so inspiriting and wild that as I listen, entranced,
some words of Ossian come rushing into my memory:

'The moon rose in the East. Fingal returned in the gleam of his arms. The
joy of his youth was great, their souls settled as a sea from a storm.
Ullin raised the song of gladness. The hills of Inistore rejoiced. The
flame of the oak arose, and the tales of heroes were told.'

Aunt is not young, but she looks very noble now--looks the very
incarnation of the music that fills the room. In it I can hear the
battle-cry of heroes, the wild slogan of clan after clan rushing to the
fight, the clang of claymore on shield, the shout of victory, the wail for
the dead. There are tears in my eyes as the music ceases, and my aunt
turns once more towards me.

'Aunt, your music has made me ashamed of myself. Before you came I
recoiled from the task you had set before me; I longed to be out and away,
marching over the moors gun in hand and dogs ahead. Now I--I--yes, aunt,
this music inspires me.'

Aunt rises as I speak, and together we leave the turret chamber, and,
passing through the great conservatory, we reach the promenade. We lean on
the battlement, long since dismantled, and gaze beneath us. Close to the
castle walls below is a well-kept lawn trending downwards with slight
incline to meet the loch which laps over its borders. This loch, or lake,
stretches for miles and miles on every side, bounded here and there by
bare, black, beetling cliffs, and in other places

'O'erhung by wild woods thickening green,

a very cloudland of foliage. The easternmost horizon of this lake is a
chain of rugged mountains, one glance at which would tell you the season
was autumn, for they are crimsoned over with blooming heather. The season
is autumn, and the time is sunset; the shadow of the great tower falls
darkling far over the loch, and already crimson streaks of cloud are
ranged along the hill-tops. So silent and still is it that we can hear the
bleating of sheep a good mile off, and the