sides at present were covered with a thick growth of gorse,
elderberry, egg-plants, and ghillie flower, while the woods about
it were loud with the voice of the throstle, the linnet, the
magpie, the jackdaw, and other song-birds of the Highlands.

It was a gloriously beautiful Scotch morning. The rain fell
softly and quietly, bringing dampness and moisture, and almost a
sense of wetness to the soft moss underfoot. Grey mists flew
hither and thither, carrying with them an invigorating rawness
that had almost a feeling of dampness.

It is the memory of such a morning that draws a tear from the eye
of Scotchmen after years of exile. The Scotch heart, reader, can
be moved to its depths by the sight of a raindrop or the sound of
a wet rag.

And meantime Hannah, the beautiful Highland girl, was singing.
The fresh young voice rose high above the rain. Even the birds
seemed to pause to listen, and as they listened to the simple
words of the Gaelic folk-song, fell off the bough with a thud
on the grass.

The Highland girl made a beautiful picture as she stood.

Her bare feet were in the burn, the rippling water of which laved
her ankles. The lobsters played about her feet, or clung
affectionately to her toes, as if loath to leave the water and be
gathered in the folds of her blue apron.

It was a scene to charm the heart of a Burne-Jones, or an Alma