SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE. 217 



" When was the last, Malcolm ? " I asked. 



" Why, mony a day, sir ; but to tell the truth, it was only 

 yesterday since I shot at one." 



" And where was that, Malcolm ? " 



" Why, if your honour wishes to know, and I am sure you 

 will do no ill turn to a lad for taking a shoot, I'll just tell 

 you." 



I could not help smiling at Malcolm's describing himself 

 as a lad. He was six feet three inches without his shoes, and 

 a perfect giant in every proportion, but strong and active 

 withal, and a capital stalker, being able to wind his great 

 body about through moss and heather in a manner that was 

 quite marvellous. Malcolm's account, then, was, that a 

 shepherd on an adjoining property, or rather on one divided 

 from where we were by a long lake, had asked him to come 

 up some evening with his gun to " fleg " some deer that had 

 been destroying his little crop of oats. Well, Malcolm had 

 gone ; and the evening before I met him he had fired in the 

 dusk at a stag with a handful of large slugs ; the deer was 

 hit and crippled, but had thrown out the colley dogs, which 

 had pursued him, by taking to the water and apparently 

 swimming the loch. If he had managed to cross he would 

 be on my side of it, and I might by chance fall in with him 

 on my return home the next day in some of the burns and 

 glens through which I should have to walk. I did not blame 

 Malcolm much, knowing the mischief done by deer to the 

 shepherds' little crops ; besides which the ground where he 

 had shot this stag was not preserved or used as a forest by 

 the owner. 



We had a weary walk, though enlivened by Malcolm's 

 quaint remarks. Without his company and guidance I saw 

 plainly that I should have had some difficulty in finding my 

 way through the rough ground over which we had to pass. 

 The night, too, had come on quite dark before we reached the 

 shealing. 



On entering I was much struck with the group which we 

 saw by the light of several splinters of bog-fir laid on a stone. 

 Malcolm's old father, a man whose years numbered at least 

 fourscore, was reading a chapter of the Bible in Gaelic to the 

 rest of his family, which consisted of his wife, a woman of 

 nearly equal age to himself, but hale, neat, and vigorous, and 

 of a sister and brother of Malcolm's ; the former a peculiarly 

 pretty, though somewhat extensive damsel ; and the latter a. 



