ong irregular range of the Cairngorm Mountains, with
the dark shadow of the Forest of Mar at their base; while to the
right, far above the lesser and more fertile hills, rose the snowy
heads of those stately patriarchs--Ben-muich-dhui and Ben-na-bourd.
Oh, those glorious Highland mountains, with their rugged peaks,
against which the fretted clouds "get wrecked and go to pieces." What
a glory, what a miracle they are! On sunny mornings with their
infinity of wondrous color so softly, so harmoniously blended; now
changing like an opal with every cloud that sails over them, and now
with deep violet shadows haunting their hollows, sunny breaks and
necks, and long glowing stretches of heather. Well has Jean Ingelow
sung of them:

"... White raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them,
Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder rents and scars,
And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them;"

for surely there could not be a grander or fairer scene on God's earth
than this.

A moment later the vehicle stopped before a white gate set in a hedge
of tall laurels and arbutus, and the driver got down and came round to
the window. "Yonder's t' Manse. Will I carry in the boxes for the
leddy?"

"No, no, wait a moment," replied Fay, hurriedly. "I must see if Mrs.
Duncan be at home. Will you help me out?" for her limbs were trembling
under her, and the weight of the baby was too much for her exhausted
strength. She felt as though she could never get to the end of the
steep little garden, or reach the stone porch. Yes; it was the same
old gray house she remembered, with the small diamond-paned windows
twinkling in the sunshine; and as she toiled up the narrow path, with
Nero barking delightedly round her, the door opened, and a little old
lady with a white hood drawn over her white curls, and a gardening
basket on her arm, stepped out into the porch.

Fay gave a little cry when she saw her. "Oh, Mrs. Duncan," she said;
and she and the baby together seemed to totter and collapse in the
little old lady's arms.

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed the startled woman; then, as her basket
and scissors rolled to the ground, "Jean, lass, where are you? here
are two bairns, and one of them looks fit to faint--ay, why, it is
never our dear little Miss Mordaunt? Why, my bairn--" But at this
moment a red-haired, freckled woman, with a pleasant, weather-beaten
face, quietly lifted the mother and child, and carried them