Very bleak and lonely it was upon this Wigtown coast. A man might walk
many a weary mile and never see a living thing except the white, heavy-
flapping kittiwakes, which screamed and cried to each other with their
shrill, sad voices.

Very lonely and very bleak! Once out of sight of Branksome and there
was no sign of the works of man save only where the high, white tower of
Cloomber Hall shot up, like a headstone of some giant grave, from amid
the firs and larches which girt it round.

This great house, a mile or more from our dwelling, had been built by a
wealthy Glasgow merchant of strange tastes and lonely habits, but at the
time of our arrival it had been untenanted for many years, and stood
with weather-blotched walls and vacant, staring windows looking blankly
out over the hill side.

Empty and mildewed, it served only as a landmark to the fishermen, for
they had found by experience that by keeping the laird's chimney and the
white tower of Cloomber in a line they could steer their way through the
ugly reef which raises its jagged back, like that of some sleeping
monster, above the troubled waters of the wind-swept bay.

To this wild spot it was that Fate had brought my father, my sister, and
myself. For us its loneliness had no terrors. After the hubbub and
bustle of a great city, and the weary task of upholding appearances upon
a slender income, there was a grand, soul-soothing serenity in the long
sky-line and the eager air. Here at least there was no neighbour to pry
and chatter.