ing terraces of green pastureland and
fields of early grain, until it reached its highest altitude on the
shores of Lake Oro. Andrew Johnstone lived on the borderland between
the highlands and the lowlands; his house, a substantial red brick,
surrounded by orchards, stood on the edge of one of the wide terraces
and commanded a view of the country for miles around. Every step of
the way was a pleasure to the newcomer; the sky was dazzling and
unclouded, the air was intoxicating with the scent of clover, and the
tinkling music of the bobolinks sounded as though all the fairies on
the Oro hills were setting out their tiny cups and saucers for a
banquet.

He was strolling along, revelling in the beauty of the perfect day and
in the sight of the rich slopes of farm lands coming down towards him
like a magnificent staircase, when his attention was attracted by a
figure on the road ahead approaching with remarkable haste. It proved
to be a man, somewhat past middle age; he was of medium height and had
a fiery red beard which flew back from his face and accentuated the
general air of desperate hurry in his whole appearance.

His face was even redder than his beard, and his wild blue eyes blazed
out in fierce contrast. An old Scotch bonnet sat upon the side of his
head and a faded tartan plaid flying from his shoulders gave the
finishing touches to his fantastic appearance. This rather alarming
person was bearing down upon the young minister and he drew off to the
side of the road and grasped his stick more firmly. John Egerton did
not lack courage any more than his grandfather had done, but he felt it
would be scarcely ministerial to have a fight on the public highway the
first week of his pastorate. He had not been long enough in Glenoro to
recognise the fiery Highlander who kept the Oa in a ferment and who
went by the weird name of Catchach. Allister McBeth he really was,
but, with their usual avoidance of baptismal names, the neighbours had
given him a more descriptive title. He had earned it himself, for he
was named after the strange guttural sound which he was in the habit of
making deep in his throat, whenever his anger was roused. This was a
contingency which arose on an average once an hour and which, when in
the company of any mischief-loving youth of the village, became
Catchach's chronic state.

His pride was so fierce, and his temper so inflammable, that he was an
unfailing source of merriment, especia