one duty, and that was
to die with him. It is said in the legend that her life was not extinct
when the barge, with its weird freight, returned to the hermit's isle.
The old man, holding in his quaking hand the cross before her dying
eyes, strove to comfort her somewhat as her blood ebbed quickly away.

"The bodies of the unhappy pair," says Mr. Dixon, "were buried within
the inclosure on the island, beneath the shade of the sacred hollies;
they were laid with their feet towards each other, and smooth stones
with outlines of mediaeval crosses were placed over the graves, and there
they remain to this day. A few stones still indicate the site of the
hermit's cell, and a considerable mound marks where the tower stood."

The last time I stood beside the little pier on Loch Maree, I noticed
many indications of the advent of southern tourists. Empty bottles were
floating on the waves, and the tiny steamer that plies on the loch was
getting ready for the summer traffic. Visitors from the Lowlands do not
suspect that such tales as I have narrated still live on the lips of the
Gairloch natives, and help to pass the hours at many an evening reunion.
How the centuries meet in such nooks of Ross! Steamers on Loch Maree,
and Olaf's cross still standing on the hermit's isle! The driver of the
mail-coach from Achnasheen to Gairloch will discuss creeds and schisms
with you, and tell you he does not believe in modern religious
developments at all; anon, as the coach passes the Gairloch Church, he
will point with extended whip to a grassy hollow on the left, and say:
"That is where the Free Church used to have its open-air Communion
Service: the place is called _Leabaidh na Ba Bhaine_, because Fingal
scooped it out as a bed where his white cow might calve." "But did
Fingal lodge in this neighbourhood?" you ask. "Oh yes, he did whatever,"
the driver will reply, "and the best proof of it is, that if you go to
the north end of Loch Maree, you will see the _sweetheart's
stepping-stones_, placed there by Fingal to keep his feet dry when he
went that way to court Malvina."

A LAIRD WHO HAD SEEN A FAIRY.

Bailie Nicol Jarvie, whom we all know so well, confessed that when he
heard the wild stories of the North, he felt his blood tingle and his
pulses leap. This fact, which as a sober man of business he felt bound
to apologize for, was probably due to heredity, his mother having been a
Macgregor. The Bailie lived at a time when rumours of