go with thirteen passengers, very crestfallen
and envious--and across the open centre porters hustle barrows at
headlong speed, with neglected pieces of luggage. Along the edge of
the Highland platform there stretches a solid mass of life,
close-packed, motionless, silent, composed of tourists, dogs, families,
lords, dogs, sheep farmers, keepers, clericals, dogs, footmen,
commercials, ladies' maids, grooms, dogs, waiting for the empty train
that, after deploying hither and thither, picking up some trifle, a
horse box or a duke's saloon, at every new raid, is now backing slowly
in for its freight. The expectant crowd has ceased from conversation,
sporting or otherwise; respectable elderly gentlemen brace themselves
for the scramble, and examine their nearest neighbours suspiciously;
heads of families gather their belongings round them by signs and
explain in a whisper how to act; one female tourist--of a certain age
and severe aspect--refreshes her memory as to the best window for the
view of Killiecrankie. The luggage has been piled in huge masses at
each end of the siding; the porters rest themselves against it, taking
off their caps, and wiping their foreheads with handkerchiefs of many
colours and uses. It is the stillness before the last charge; beyond
the outermost luggage an arm is seen waving, and the long coil of
carriages begins to twist into the station.

People who know their ancient Muirtown well, and have taken part in
this day of days, will remember a harbour of refuge beside the
book-stall, protected by the buffers of the Highland siding on one side
and a breakwater of luggage on the other, and persons within this
shelter could see the storming of the train to great advantage.
Carmichael, the young Free Kirk minister of Drumtochty, who had been
tasting the civilisation of Muirtown overnight and was waiting for the
Dunleith train, leant against the back of the bookstall, watching the
scene with frank, boyish interest. Rather under six feet in height, he
passed for more, because he stood so straight and looked so slim, for
his limbs were as slender as a woman's, while women (in Muirtown) had
envied his hands and feet. But in chest measure he was only two inches
behind Saunders Baxter, the grieve of Drumsheugh, who was the standard
of manhood by whom all others were tried and (mostly) condemned in
Drumtochty. Chancing to come upon Saunders putting the stone one day
with the bothy lads, Carmichael had