have been changed into deer-forests; and far and wide along the valleys
and across the hills there is not a trace of habitation, except the
heaps of stones and the clumps of straggling bushes which mark the sites
of lost homes. But what is one country's loss is another country's gain.
Canada and the United States are infinitely the richer for the tough,
strong, fearless, honest men that were dispersed from these lonely
straths to make new homes across the sea.

It was after sundown when I reached the straggling village of Melvich,
and the long day's journey had left me weary. But the inn, with its
red-curtained windows, looked bright and reassuring. Thoughts of dinner
and a good bed comforted my spirit--prematurely. For the inn was full.
There were but five bedrooms and two parlours. The gentlemen who had the
neighbouring shootings occupied three bedrooms and a parlour; the other
two bedrooms had just been taken by the English fishermen who had
passed me in the road an hour ago in the mail-coach (oh! why had I not
suspected that treacherous vehicle?); and the landlord and his wife
assured me, with equal firmness and sympathy, that there was not another
cot or pair of blankets in the house. I believed them, and was sinking
into despair when Sandy M'Kaye appeared on the scene as my angel of
deliverance. Sandy was a small, withered, wiry man, dressed in rusty
gray, with an immense white collar thrusting out its points on either
side of his chin, and a black stock climbing over the top of it. I
guessed from his speech that he had once lived in the lowlands. He had
hoped to be engaged as a gillie by the shooting party, but had been
disappointed. He had wanted to be taken by the English fishermen, but
another and younger man had stepped in before him. Now Sandy saw in me
his Predestinated Opportunity, and had no idea of letting it post up the
road that night to the next village. He cleared his throat respectfully
and cut into the conversation.