Is it not dreadful?

VII. —­ Hannah of the Highlands:  or, The Laird of Loch Aucherlocherty

               “Sair maun ye greet, but hoot awa! 
                There’s muckle yet, love isna’ a’—­
                Nae more ye’ll see, howe’er ye whine
                The bonnie breeks of Auld Lang Syne!”

THE simple words rang out fresh and sweet upon the morning air.

It was Hannah of the Highlands.  She was gathering lobsters in the burn that ran through the glen.

The scene about her was typically Highland.  Wild hills rose on both sides of the burn to a height of seventy-five feet, covered with a dense Highland forest that stretched a hundred yards in either direction.  At the foot of the burn a beautiful Scotch loch lay in the hollow of the hills.  Beyond it again, through the gap of the hills, was the sea.  Through the Glen, and close beside the burn where Hannah stood, wound the road that rose again to follow the cliffs along the shore.

The tourists in the Highlands will find no more beautiful spot than the Glen of Aucherlocherty.

Nor is there any spot which can more justly claim to be historic ground.

It was here in the glen that Bonnie Prince Charlie had lain and hidden after the defeat of Culloden.  Almost in the same spot the great boulder still stands behind which the Bruce had laid hidden after Bannockburn; while behind a number of lesser stones the Covenanters had concealed themselves during the height of the Stuart persecution.

Through the Glen Montrose had passed on his fateful ride to Killiecrankie; while at the lower end of it the rock was still pointed out behind which William Wallace had paused to change his breeches while flying from the wrath of Rob Roy.

Grim memories such as these gave character to the spot.

Indeed, most of the great events of Scotch history had taken place in the Glen, while the little loch had been the scene of some of the most stirring naval combats in the history of the Grampian Hills.

But there was little in the scene which lay so peaceful on this April morning to recall the sanguinary history of the Glen.  Its sides at present were covered with a thick growth of gorse, elderberry, egg-plants, and ghillie flower, while the woods about it were loud with the voice of the throstle, the linnet, the magpie, the jackdaw, and other song-birds of the Highlands.

It was a gloriously beautiful Scotch morning.  The rain fell softly and quietly, bringing dampness and moisture, and almost a sense of wetness to the soft moss underfoot.  Grey mists flew hither and thither, carrying with them an invigorating rawness that had almost a feeling of dampness.

It is the memory of such a morning that draws a tear from the eye of Scotchmen after years of exile.  The Scotch heart, reader, can be moved to its depths by the sight of a raindrop or the sound of a wet rag.