lichen, or else hid suddenly in the heather which,
mingling with pale green bracken, made a straggling pattern of
amethyst and jade for miles along the way. Oh, it was all lovely;
and we stayed a night there, at an ideal inn where fishermen engage
their rooms years beforehand. A dear old waiter in the Loch Maree
hotel advised me in the kindest way never, never to speak of fresh
herring as fish, in Scotland. I wonder why? He said, would I have
fresh herrings or eggs? I said I'd have the fish. He said there was
_no fish_, but would I try the herring? That was the way the
subject came up.

We had two Highland ferries to cross, getting to Ballachulish.
Strome Ferry, which was difficult and almost dangerous because
there was a great storm of wind just then, and Dornie Ferry. I
liked those experiences better than almost anything we have done
with Blunderbore. The little ferries were so much more exciting
than a huge steam ferryboat, like that on the Tay. And in the wild,
lost country passing Clunie Inn, it poured with rain and wind, the
gale lashing us, rocking the car like a cradle. The spattering mud
made us look like hideous freckled people; and so the MacDonalds
saw me first. I hope Mr. Somerled explained I wasn't like that
really. We had so much arguing about Mrs. Payne's telegram and what
the Vannecks should do, that we had no time to wash, and I didn't
seem to care if I was never clean again. But the minute the Gray
Dragon appeared I cared _fearfully_. I took great pains with my
appearance before I started out with my new cousins, for Glencoe,
and I felt so happy that it seemed the place ought to call itself
the Glen o' Smiling instead of the Glen o' Weeping.

Of course, however, I lost that frivolous feeling when we were
there, even though it was a joy to be back with the Gray Dragon;
for the Pass of Glencoe is like the Valley of Death. It is a sad
mouth wide open, roaring to the sky for vengeance, biting at the
clouds with black, jagged teeth; a great mouth in a dead face wet
with the tears of the weeping that can never be dried. It rained
while we were there, and though rain doesn't matter to the Gray
Dragon, it made the Pass more wild and grim if possible, filling it
with gray, drifting ghosts: ghosts of the murdered clansmen; ghosts
dis