ouring rain, leaden skies, the gloomy
solitude of the high moors, the sound of roaring waters. And here they
were crouching under a stone wall, with their dripping fingers lighting
match after match for their damp pipes, with not a few midges in the
moist and clammy air, and with a faint halo of steam plainly arising
from the leather of their boots. When Fionaghal the Fair Stranger came
from over the blue seas to her new home, was this the picture of
Highland life that was presented to her?

"Lady Beauregard, for example?" said Macleod.

"Oh, I am not talking about women," observed the sagacious boy; "I never
could make out a woman's notions about any thing. I dare say they like
London life well enough, for they can show off their shoulders and their
diamonds."

"Ogilvie," Macleod said, with a sudden earnestness, "I am fretting my
heart out here--that is the fact. If it were not for the poor old
mother--and Janet--but I will tell you another time."

He got up on his feet, and took his gun from Sandy. His
companion--wondering not a little, but saying nothing--did likewise. Was
this the man who had always seemed rather proud of his hard life on the
hills? Who had regarded the idleness and effeminacy of town life with
something of an unexpressed scorn? A young fellow in robust health and
splendid spirits--an eager sportsman and an accurate shot--out for his
first shooting-day of the year: was it intelligible that he should be
visited by vague sentimental regrets for London drawing-rooms and vapid
talk? The getting up of a snipe interrupted these speculations; Ogilvie
blazed away, missing with both barrels; Macleod, who had been patiently
waiting to see the effect of the shots, then put up his gun, and
presently the bird came tumbling down, some fifty yards off.

"You haven't warmed to it yet," Macleod said, charitably. "The first
half hour after luncheon a man always shoots badly."

"Especially when his clothes are glued to his skin from head to foot,"
said Ogilvie.

"You will soon walk some heat into yourself."

And again they went on, Macleod pursuing the same tactics, so that his
companion had the cream of the shooting. Despite the continued soaking
rain, Ogilvie's spirits seemed to become more and more buoyant. He was
shooting capitally; one very long shot he made, bringing down an old
blackcock with a thump on the heather, causing Hamish to exclaim,--

"Well done, sir! It is a glass of whiskey you will deser