that is to say, the mountain which based the lodge flat, was so peculiarly peaked that it might have served as a landmark to the Lowlands. The crowning rocks were fantastically heaped one on another like an upraised cross; and probably Saint Columba himself, struck with the similitude, when wandering in this part of the Highlands more than twelve hundred years ago, had given it its name, for since then it has been called Craigchrisht.

The lodge, a small gray stone building, stood on a platform of heather closely surrounded by high mountains, which, in their desolate grandeur, shut it in from outward view: showing in summer but the play of light and shadow on the manycoloured rock, as the glaring sun sent down its rays with fiery fervour, and in winter, only dreary heights sheeted with snow. There appeared to be neither egress from nor approach to it; though there was a track branching from the parliamentary road about a mile to the west, and winding in a zig-zag pass through the mountain chain until it abruptly ceased at this heather-clad opening.

Behind the lodge ran a brawling river, rushing ceaselessly, with many a fall from the glens beyond, towards the large loch of Nightach. On the brink of the stream stood a detached shedding of tarred wood, the habitation of forty dogs and twenty gillies. They were kenneled here, out of hearing of the lodge tenants; English dogs and Highland dependants living together in happy unanimity, enjoying a mingled life of work and ease, and ever ready to start at the bidding of their masters.

Small, indeed, was that little lodge of Dreumah in comparison with the vast territory to which its tenancy gave the sporting right; and marvellous in the eyes of olden folk were the changes of time and fashion which had caused that right, so little valued in their young days, now to bring an income doubled to the laird. The puir silly grouse and the red deer of the hills were now become the props of the rental; their lives being valuable, their comfort was heeded: no ejectments for them! Times were changed. In the days of the olden lairds the wild birds and the beasts belonged to the faithful clansmen and the tenants, and he who ran might shoot. venison was for the snowy days of winter, when goodly haunches might hang on the rafters of every bothie, and no one was asked to pay for the peats that smoked it, then, or for the heather grass that fattened it. Aye, not a grandfather

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amongst them but might remember those days, and turn to curse the change. The people and the beasts had reigned an equal length of days, from time immemorial; but the beasts were subservient: the people stood next to the laird in those days; they fought and bled for him. In the very, very old days, it was they who kept his lands for him in spite of the Sassenachs; but now, the Sassenachs, who never could have won the land by their blood, could win it by their gold; and the lairds took their gold, and "evicted" their people. The times were indeed changed!

The sitting-room of the lodge was about to be vacated; the three gentlemen had risen from breakfast and were in discussion over their plans for the day. It was a small square room, furnished with rigorous simplicity, and lighted by two curtainless windows at one end; a black hair sofa was drawn along the wall, opposite to the hearth, where a huge turf fire blazed; a heavy table was in the middle, on which lay a pile of newspapers, books, and cigars; wooden arm-chairs of comfortable shapes stood about; and on the side where the door of egress opened were several shelves laden with desks, game cards, quaighs, flasks, etc. On the opposite side were three small doors, half shut, and marked B. No. 1, B. No. 2, B. No. 3, showing them to be occupied as bedrooms. Into one of these Basil Harold, the youngest and tallest man of the Dreumah party, now entered, whistling: he was impatient to get out and be off. It was a room of cell-like proportions, sufficing to contain a chair or two and a large bath, in addition to the long and narrow bed, fixed in a recess of the wall, and curtained. The washing-stand was built into the wall, and supplied with pipes of icy water from a hill spring; a looking-glass, dressingcase, etc., stood on a broad slab of slate which formed the sill of the window; and shelves, reaching from above the pillow to the ceiling, held all the necessaries of a shooting-lodge toilette. All three bedrooms were planned and furnished exactly alike.

Basil Harold dived his hand into the pocket of a superb dressing-gown of wadded satin which hung behind the door, and taking out a cigar-case and a book, transferred them to the pocket of his shooting jacket; then slinging on his shotbelt and powder-flask, he rejoined his friends. He was rather reserved in manner, and grave for his years, which numbered only six-and-twenty; but with a certain dreaminess in his soft blue eyes and a quiet humourous smile, which struck the

honesty of purpose and purity of mind were innate qualities in him. The womanly care which had guarded and guided him until his tenth year, had cultivated good principles never to be exterminated. Gentle, loving, and beloved, as a boy, he had never been cruel or mean-spirited; but, strong and healthy in mind and body, when he went to Eton, he developed a manly spirit, and in self-reliance was inferior to none: he was happy there, and when he left cried "Floreat Etona" with all his heart. On leaving Oxford, he went abroad for a couple of years with his friend Sir Francis Thornton; who quite foresaw the beginning of a bright future for Basil. Harold's hall stood ready for his return to that fine old place, where all the social duties and pleasures of life for him were centred; and with the fresh vigour of unwasted youth, he had already, asking God's blessing, began the happy performance of them.

The other men were seated on opposite sides of the blazing fire when he re-entered. Edward Herbert Auber, who was lighting his cigar at a bit of glowing turf, was a slight-made man of five or six and thirty, with a pale complexion, soft dark eyes, and hair of silky ebon black. His manners were bland and earnest, and he had a smile of variable expression and perfect beauty. A most fascinating companion was Auber. He had travelled, was accomplished, frank, and agreeable; his temper was perfect: no contrary tastes or opinions could embitter his feelings, and the finely modulated tones of his voice powerfully aided his persuasive eloquence. His patience and good-humour were never exhausted; not even when his friend Marchmoram forced him to ascend Stronichie at a goat's pace. He enjoyed life, and had seen it in all its phases; and he knew not only London but the world.

On the moor, Marchmoram's firm and active step was always slightly ahead of his friends, and his quick and energetic voice was decisive, either in animated conversation or in commands to the keepers; who were always more ready to hear and obey his orders than those of either the polished Auber or good-humoured Harold; for a man who combines a powerful frame with force of character, has a strong influence over all

his inferiors, from menials even to the brute creation. Of Marchmoram's mind we shall know more anon. His face was strong and peculiar; marked with traits of good and evil. His hair was a rich chestnut colour, and of exquisitely fine texture; all women admired it. His eyes were literally the light of his countenance, for when they were cast down in one of his absent moods, darkness came over his expression: their colour was a hawkish brown that deepened almost to blackness with rage, softened with love, and when excited-and he was fearfully excitable-kindled like fire. The flame of life burnt strongly in him, whether openly or subdued. In short, he would have been handsome, but for the mouth, the index of character. It was ugly, and unlovable: the lips were thin, red, and firm, and sometimes drawn down at the corners; smiles sardonic, sarcastic, satanic, and seraphic wreathed them by turns. On the high, wide, and massive brow, intellect sat firm: no bodily fatigue could dull his keen mental energies. His figure was more strongly than finely proportioned; being rather too muscular, but well adapted for the manly exercises of walking, running, rowing, and riding, in all of which he excelled. He had many friends, but had made some enemies. He wanted the studied self-control, the polished forbearance of Auber where he despised any one he showed it and this was somewhat often.

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Marchmoram had just briefly announced to Auber his intention of not shooting that day, as Harold entered.

"The flat of Bohr'dell does not suit me! I shall walk to the post by-and-by, and bring back a report of the game on Lochandu."

Auber shrugged his shoulders in reply, and walked to the window.

"Well, the grouse have crowed too long for me this morning," exclaimed Harold, seizing his cap, and striding towards the door. "I am off! and, Auber, if you want the scent to keep as it does now, you should be on Stronichie in half-anhour. Shall I call Ralph ?"

"The wind may blow where it listeth for me, my good fellow," replied Auber, putting his head out of the window. "I must have another fortnight in this bracing climate before my energies will match yours. If I don't find the stag to-day, I shan't sleep less soundly to-night. But be so kind as to send Thorold here, if you see him."

"Not going out!" exclaimed Marchmoram, as Harold left

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day for lunch. Pray have it put up; and tell Ralph, the redheaded gillie (I always forget their infernal names)

"Oon Maikeen-zee, my lord-sir-I beg your pardon,' stuttered the valet.

"Ewen Mackenzie," said Marchmoram, angrily. "Auber, no message can be given distinctly where, as you have seen before, affected blunders are permitted."

The valet gave a huffed bow.

"Ewen Mackenzie, Thorold," Auber repeated, blandly. "Pray tell Ralph to desire Mr. Ewen Mackenzie to meet me at the Bogle Spring, with a hill pony for returning."

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Yes, sir-my lord." And with a stately bow Thorold disappeared.

"I hate that fellow; he is as unsuited to this place as Jacques the French cook," said Marchmoram.

Auber laughed. "Thorold, certainly, is only pleasant in his thorough English comfort: he suits London admirably. Were I to go abroad to-morrow, I would not take him; but it would require all the strength of my conscience to prevent my bribing Harold's Gupini away from him."

"Yes; he would be worth his weight in gold," replied Marchmoram. "That fellow would go neck and neck with his master through any country. Seldom in his life before (or I am much mistaken) has Gupini lived in the ease of his present servitude; and there is too much quicksilver in the rascal to make him long content with it. He is a clever fellow; but give me my own honest bull-dog, Greaves-faithful, quiet, and obedient: I require nothing else in a servant."

"No those are sterling qualities," replied Auber, and humming an opera air, he proceeded to join the gamekeeper, who waited impatiently outside.

Half-an-hour afterwards Marchmoram rose from his chair, muttering, "Pshaw! no more dreams!" and glancing at a leathern bag hanging above one of the bedroom doors, he took it down, slung it over his shoulder, put a quaigh and a small field-glass into his pocket, and sauntered out. When he felt the keen air strike his face, he turned and took a large plaid of