14 CHAPTER I. 



the kind they have over there, marmalade, hot scones, and almost 

 coffee, gave a foundation for the pipe which drew well and kept 

 burning with an incense sweeter than ever was offered to the most 

 glorious gods. 



The British system of handling baggage without checks required me 

 to look for my trunk, a large steamer trunk, it was, and though I 

 had subsidized a porter to care for it, I made myself known to the 

 station-master, a man of import here. Without doubt, to be station- 

 master at Inverness is a dignified duty. Mackey, in high hat and 

 frock coat, to whom my friend had written letters asking him to look 

 out for me, was the station-master. He went gladly to supervise my 

 preparations for departure. At the luggage van for a moment the 

 trunk seemed to be lacking, but in response to Mackey's query the 

 guard on the luggage van said, with that thick though pleasing 

 Scotch burr which was soon to become so familiar to me : "Wull ye 

 be meanin' the big Yankee box?" to which I answered: "Yes, a big 

 Yankee box." 



"Aye ; uts here? all richt, safe an' soond an' " labeled for Larrig." 

 Lairg being the station at which I was to descend. 



And here I pause overwhelmed by the impossibility of reproducing 

 by any means within my power that Scotch dialect which is like to 

 no other tongue in the world, and yet withal so fascinating in its 

 quaintness. 



Mackey saw me into the rear glass-bound compartment of a first- 

 class car, bade me a good journey and good hunting and was away 

 upon more important employment, and the little train was soon also 

 away on its slow journey to the further Highlands. 



Its way lay along Moray Firth, then by Cromarty Firth ; by loch 

 and over burn, winding and twisting and turning to follow the ebb 

 of the sea until our sturdy little locomotive took the bit in its teeth, 

 as might a shaggy Scotch pony, and made straight for the hills. 



There is such a thing as Scotch mist. It may be you have heard 

 of it. It might be called rain by some, but not by those who have 

 known the Oregon mist or the soft, but "dry" rain of Puget Sound. 

 'Twixt gray and graceful showers the sun winked out smiling to think 

 it had power enough to interpose a glimmer upon a day evidently 

 intended by the All-Wise to be a misty one. 



