horizon, and especially gathering around the peaks of the mountain,
betokened the near approach of a thunderstorm. This was a great delight
to me. Gladly would I take leave of my home with the memory of a last
night of tumultuous magnificence; followed, probably, by a day of
weeping rain, well suited to the mood of my own heart in bidding
farewell to the best of parents and the dearest of homes. Besides, in
common with most Scotchmen who are young and hardy enough to be unable
to realise the existence of coughs and rheumatic fevers, it was a
positive pleasure to me to be out in rain, hail, or snow.

"I am come to bid you good-bye, Margaret; and to hear the story which
you promised to tell me before I left home: I go to-morrow."

"Do you go so soon, my darling? Well, it will be an awful night to tell
it in; but, as I promised, I suppose I must."

At the moment, two or three great drops of rain, the first of the storm,
fell down the wide chimney, exploding in the clear turf-fire.

"Yes, indeed you must," I replied.

After a short pause, she commenced. Of course she spoke in Gaelic; and I
translate from my recollection of the Gaelic; but rather from the
impression left upon my mind, than from any recollection of the words.
She drew her chair near the fire, which we had reason to fear would soon
be put out by the falling rain, and began.

"How old the story is, I do not know. It has come down through many
generations. My grandmother told it to me as I tell it to you; and her
mother and my mother sat beside, never interrupting, but nodding their