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knew the shameful story of Glencoe, and the touching old Celtic romance connected with Glen Etive, but I doubt if he could have told whether these glens were on the east or west side of Scotland; and as for the people, he had as much notion of them as he had of Laplanders.

Had he known them better, and understood the spirit of their proud nationality—their independence and fierce jealousy—he might have kept his good looks and never become a painter.

At King’s House, the moor he had come five hundred miles to see was at once forgotten in the superior attractions of the hills and Glen Etive. The wild glen with its purple corries, brawling burns, and romantic associations fascinated him. He was crazed about it. He would people it with the sons of Uisenach, and point out triumphantly to me how the old Gaelic names of certain spots corroborated the truth of the legends. He got Celtic romance on the brain! It was a new field for the artist. We were in the midst of the veritable backgrounds, and lo! here was a living Darthula and a living Naisi in the persons of Joan our landlord’s niece, and young Angus the forester. With red-hot enthusiasm he made friends with these two lovers, and planned innumerable pictures, with them in the foreground.

There was little to be said against Burgon making studies for his Darthula, but when it had gone on for a couple of weeks I began to have misgivings.

I saw that this same countrified Miss Joan was a true daughter of Eve—a born coquette. No seasoned young lady of Mayfair could have played off the handsome young stranger against her somewhat dour sweetheart with more skill and dexterity than she. More than once I had seen Angus scowl and tug savagely at his beard, and the more he scowled and tugged the more saucily Miss Joan smiled and chattered nonsense to Burgon about his pictures. In these pictures, too, Burgon became more deeply buried every day—more patient on posing and drawing his heroine, and more elaborate in the details of the rain-beaten hills that were to form his background.

He had a fine time of it, and the weather was glorious. But every day the dreary moor we had come so far for the express purpose of crossing, and as yet had scarcely set a foot on, seemed to confront us with a sort of menace.

It so happened I never did cross it, for we had scarce entered on our third week when I was hastily summoned back by the death of a relative.

Now the little comedy that was going on had been fine fun for everybody but Angus; and Angus’s temper not being of the blandest, the situation soon became what politicians term “strained.” Angus was a man you could neither reason with nor chaff. At first he made a sorry pretence of laughing it off. Then he sulked, and now, if flouted by Joan, would stalk on to the hillside, and nurse his wrath by watching the house from the heather.

The very day before I left there happened to be a stronger tiff than usual, so I followed him on to the brae, sat down by his side, lit my pipe, and discoursed to him like a brother. I flattered myself I could put matters right in a jiffy by simply pointing out, with my superior worldly experience, that the best girls were always wayward and flighty, and every one of them