were few historic spots as compared with the coast country.  The road usually followed the edge of the hills, often with a lake or mountain stream on one hand.  From Crianlarich we followed the sparkling Dochart until we reached the shore of Loch Tay, about twenty miles distant.  From the mountainside we had an unobstructed view of this narrow but lovely lake, lying for a distance of twenty miles between ridges of sharply rising hills.  White, low-hung clouds half hid the mountains on the opposite side of the loch, giving the delightful effect of light and shadow for which the Scotch Highlands are famous and which the pictures of Watson, Graham and Farquharson have made familiar to nearly everyone.

At the northern end of the lake we caught distant glimpses of the battlemented towers of Taymouth Castle, home of the Marquis of Breadalbane, which, though modern, is one of the most imposing of the Scotch country seats.  If the castle itself is imposing, what shall we say of the estate, extending as it does westward to the Sound of Mull, a distance of one hundred miles—­a striking example of the inequalities of the feudal system.  Just before we crossed the bridge over the Tay River near the outlet of the lake, we noticed a gray old mansion with many Gothic towers and gables, Grandtully Castle, made famous by Scott as the Tully-Veolan of Waverly.  Near by is Kinniard House, where Robert Louis Stevenson wrote “Treasure Island.”

A few miles farther on we came to Pitlochry, a surprisingly well built resort with excellent hotels and a mammoth “Hydropathic” that dominates the place from a high hill.  The town is situated in the very center of the Highlands, surrounded by hills that supply the gray granite used in its construction; and here we broke our journey for the night.

Our way to Inverness was through a sparsely inhabited, wildly broken country, with half a dozen mean-looking villages at considerable distances from each other and an occasional hut or wayside inn between.  Although it was July and quite warm for the north of Scotland, the snow still lingered on many of the low mountains, and in some places it seemed that we might reach it by a few minutes’ walk.  There was little along the road to remind one of the stirring times or the plaided and kilted Highlander that Scott has led us to associate with this country.  We saw one old man, the keeper of a little solitary inn in the very heart of the hills, arrayed in the full glory of the old-time garb—­plaid, tartan, sporran and skene-dhu, all set off by the plumed Glengarry cap—­a picturesque old fellow indeed.  And we met farther on the way a dirty-looking youth with his bagpipes slung over his shoulder—­in dilapidated modern garb he was anything but a fit descendant of the minstrels whose fame has come down to us in song and story.  Still, he was glad to play for us, and despite his general resemblance to an every-day American tramp, it was something to have heard the skirl of the bag-pipe in the Pass of Killiekrankie.