T is only within the last decade that the Muir of Ord Market, once celebrated throughout the Highlands, has become, comparatively, so little frequented. On a certain Thursday in every month the grey muir that lies on the Inverness side of Ord village became a gay and busy scene. Alas! towards evening the road that stretches wide and straight through the muir, and on to Conon and Dingwall, became a scene of gay and drunken revel. Worn-out crofters' ponies jogging peaceably homeward, their masters seated, maudlin, on the cartshaft, were hardly dangers; but halfbroken Clydesdale colts, with tipsy riders, were not pleasant to meet.

"Hoch and indeed," said Geordie Ross, "it's no possible to buy a Highland sheltie at the Muir wi' oot as mony drams as would buy the beastie twice ower."

"George," retorted his English cousin, "if ever I see you coming home the worse, I'll never speak to you again."

Geordie laid down the bridle he had been cleaning, and came out to the stable door. There was a light in his honest blue eyes,

"Jean," he said in a low voice, "lassie, if I go to the mairket and come home steady-like, wull ye gie anither answer to the ane ye did twal' months syne?"

She turned her head away and answered, Scotch fashion, with a question.

"When are you going, George?"

"The morrow, Jean. The maister's sending me to buy a few cattle tae pit in the east laigh field."

Jeannie flashed round. And you call yourself a man, and make so much of buying a few cows without making a brute of yourself!"

Geordie sighed. How was it possible to make this little English-bred cousin understand the enormity of the sacrifice he was prepared to make for her? She made such a provokingly pretty picture, too, standing there in the July sunshine, and Geordie had a sense of the beautiful.

"Look ye here, lass," he said desperately, "I'll tell ye what I'll do. I'll tak' a poondtwenty shullins-wi' me, an' I'll bring it back as whole as I took it. That'll show ye I won't hae tiched a drap o' drink o' ony sort, except watter."

"Ay," she said, "and how can I tell that you

won't borrow money?"- then stopped, abashed by the pain in the blue eyes.

"Na, na, lass," he said, with gentle dignity, "I think ye ken me weel eno' to believe I wudna play a dirty trick like thon."

"Yes, George, and I know enough to know an honest man.' And with that she ran away. But Geordie returned whistling to his work. He felt that his happiness now lay in his own hands in his own power of resisting temptation.

Next morning at seven o'clock he entered the farm kitchen, where Jean was already at work preparing breakfast.

"Not away yet?" said she ungraciously. But nothing daunted, he strode across the room and stood before her. He was a fine-looking young fellow stalwart, blue-eyed, yellow-bearded, and fresh-complexioned. In his new "moleskins

and jacket of home-spun he made a good type of a Scotch working man. A certain amount of the admiration she felt came into Jean's expression, and perhaps Geordie saw it.

"Jean," he began, "ye ken fine I'm no in ony way what cud be ca'ed a drinker?" "Yes, George," demurely.

"An' ye've never seen me come hame what cud be ca'ed incapable?"

"No, George."

"But ye ken fine that I can tak' my gless wi' anither when I'm making a bargain?" "And you should be ashamed to stand there and confess it!"-with spirit.

a bad one,

"Weel, lass, it's the custommaybe, but for a' that there it is." He paused for a moment, then resumed: "But I'm no to tich a drap the day. I'll hae to pit up wi' a deal o' lauchin', an' they'll be makin' a bar o' me turnin' teetotal, but I'm to do it for love o' you." Geordie paused again: love-making is difficult in the early morning, and especially when the lady of your choice wears a perfectly stolid expression. However, Geordie made a bold dash, and added: "There's no muckle I wudna dae for you, my ain dearie!"

"

Indeed, sir," said Jean, "you've too much cheek altogether! And what good is this to do me, may I ask?"

"Wull I never mak' you understand?"despairingly. "Weel, lass, if ye wull hae it so, I'll jist say that maybe it's no you that it'll do ony good to, but jist mysel." He felt in his waistcoat pocket, and produced a half-sovereign and four half-crowns. 66 Jean, I sweer to you that thon's every bawbee I hae aboot me; if I bring them hame to ye jist as they are the noo, wull ye gie me ony hope?"

A long pause, whilst the lady deliberately turned a bannock on the girdle.

"An' I sweer l'll no tak' a drap frae body."

ony

ither

No answer. The lady lifted the bannocks deftly on the blade of an old knife, and placed them on an ashette.

That even a worm will turn is very true, and "Faint heart never won fair lady" is an excellent proverb. Geordie placed his hand on Jean's shoulder and turned her gently towards him. His face was white under the tan, and his voice was hoarse and stern.

"Ye'll need to hae done wi' playin' wi' me, Jean. Wull ye mak' the bargain, or wull ye no?" She shook off his hand and ran to the door. There she turned.

"Yes, I'll make the bargain," she said, "and if you keep your half, I-I'll be blithe to keep mine!" and vanished.

The sun shone brightly as Geordie took his way over Conon Bridge. The river wimpled softly through the stone arches, and, fallen low in the dry weather, stretched widely on each side of the islands, now æsthetically green and yellow with whin blossom, broom, and birch. As he rode up through the bonnie little village, the gardens in the sunshine garish with July annuals, he met his rival the gamekeeper. His rival! With Jean's last words ringing in his ears he could laugh at the term now. Yet, with the romance of kilt and sporran he made a picturesque figure; and Geordie felt that, if only on that acconnt, Sandy might have had serious attractions for his romantic little sweetheart. Such fears were things of the past.

"It's like to be weet the day," said Sandy, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Weet, man!" exclaimed Geordie, "Weet wi' yon sky?"

"Ay, man, it's weel kenned that there is no mony that returns dry frae the Muir!" And he went on his way chuckling, and hugely pleased with his own joke.

But, accompanied by the rich harvest of his thoughts, and caring little for such "vacant chaff", Geordie pressed on along the level road that leads through the properties of Conon, Highfield, and Ord. He stabled his horse at the Tarradale Inn, and thence took his way on foot to the Muir. Here he was met by many a friendly greeting, for Geordie was a favourite. He moved about among the crowd, occasionally letting his eye rest on a likely lot of beasts, but finding none that came up to his standard of bovine excellence. At length he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a cheery voice said, "Hullo, Ross, what are you looking for?"

Geordie turned and saw the laird smiling pleasantly at him. He explained his business.

"Well, lad, if you get nothing better, you may tell your master I'm ready to give him the Angus beasts at the price he offered last week."

"Deed, laird," said Geordie, "I've nae need to gang further; there's no a beast in the mairket we'd rather buy."

The laird laughed. "The fact is," he said, "that they are not in the market. As I told you, I did not intend to sell them; but I've just bought some Highland cattle to please her ladyship, and I have not room for both."

The purchase was quickly made, and then the laird took a silver flask from his pocket.

"A wee drop of mountain dew," he said, "to seal the bargain."

Geordie reddened to the roots of his hair. Refuse a dram from the laird! Surely that would be the acme of bad manners and churlishness. He had realised the difficulty of refusing an equal, but such a predicament as this had not entered into his calculations. And to make matters worse, the spirit was poured into a silver cup and held towards him. But Geordie had inherited a certain dogged obstinacy, as well as feudal respect, from his forbears.

"I'm no takin' the day, laird, thank ye," he said, awkwardly.

"Come, come, lad, don't be bashful! Or have you turned teetotal?"

"No, thank ye, laird." But a fierce conflict was going on. Surely even Jean would think this an exceptional case. The laird meanwhile quietly emptied the cup of whisky on the grass. "I see you have your own reasons for refusing," he said. "I wish that there were more And with a sigh he left him, Geordie echoed the sigh, but it was one of intense relief. He would leave this cursed place and get home, lest he should have to go through any more such scenes.

lads like you."

Oh, Geordie! what star of ill-luck made you cross the road to look at that short-horn bull? It is true that he is the champion of the Northern Counties, and well worth looking at, but not worth the risk that you are running.

"Now, then, ladies and gentlemen," said a nasal voice, close to Geordie. "I am abart to hoffer you a bigger bargain than you'll ever get in Muir of Hord, Conon, or Dingwall, or even Culbokie."

Geordie glanced round, and saw close to him a caravan, in the doorway of which stood a remarkably small man, of a remarkably villainous cast of countenance. A group of men and lads, rapidly increasing to a crowd, was gathered round him. From the recesses of the caravan he produced a trayful of silver watches. He held one up by its much be-tasselled chain. Now, ladies-what! no ladies present? Well, all I can say is as there ought to be! Well, gentlemen single, or single gentlemen, 'ere's a present suitable for wives or sweethearts, a bew-ti-ful little gem of a silver watch!

Come, now, what'll you bid for it? 'Arf a crown? No one bid anythink at all? Well, it wouldn't be much use your bidding less than ten bob, for I simply wouldn't tike it. What hif I was to tell you that there was a crisp new Bank of England note in the hinside of each watch-kise?"

A murmur of incredulity arose from the crowd.

Well, there may be one or two has 'asn't it, but heven hif they 'av'n't, isn't this bew-ti-ful little gem of a silver watch worth double what you pay for it?"

This somewhat enigmatical sentence ought to have impressed the crowd, but Mr. Cheap Jack finds Sandy, intent on business, more difficult to move than 'Arry out for a holiday at Margate. He must try more practical means.

"P'rap I should 'ave said a Bank of Scotland note. Well, there it is!"

For a brief moment he opened the watch lid, let the crowd catch a glimpse of a neatly folded piece of paper, replaced the watch on the tray, and dramatically folded his arms.

"Now, p'raps, you'll believe my word! Now you may condescend to see that I'm selling the watches for your good, and not for my own profit!"

He picked up the watch once more.

"Now, before my patience is quite gone, will you 'ave the watch or won't yer? Time is getting short, and I 'ave a happointment with the Dook of Sutherland at 'arf-past three hexactly!"

A lad of about eighteen, even at that early age and hour fuddled with bad whisky, stepped forward.

"Gi'e me the watch, an' if ye're telling me a lee I'll break yer darned ugly heid for ye!"

As he spoke he held out a handful of loose silver, amounting possibly to ten or twelve shillings. The Cheap Jack took it, and handed him his purchase. There was a breathless pause whilst the lad opened the watch.

The

crowd jostled forward, those nearest peering over his shoulder, as with trembling fingers he removed the crisp paper from its resting place, and smoothed out the creases. He held it up. It was a note on the British Linen Company's Bank for £1 sterling.

Then a chorus of exclamations broke forth. "Weel done, Jimmy lad!"

66 Losh, mon! a silver watch and chain an' a poond note for a few shullin's !"

"She's the ferry pest pargain she effer saw, whateffer!"

"Man alive! did ever ye see the like!" "Hoch an' hoch, such a thing to be in it!" I tremble for my own reputation as a truthful story-teller, but I can only tell you of what fol

lowed as I heard it from an eye-witness of the

scene.

The Cheap Jack struck ere the iron grew cool, and holding up a watch in each hand, cried"I 'ave honly twenty left! Tike 'em or leave 'em!"

And they took them. Yes, the hard-headed, calculating Scot was beaten by the little Cockney. I blush for my countrymen. They crowded and pressed up to the caravan, they held up their purchase money, and he took it. He took anything from five shillings to a pound. In an incredibly short time he had got rid of from twenty to thirty sixpenny watches. Then he turned his caravan, whipped up his horse, and took his departure.

The scene after this can hardly be imagined, much less described. When the crowd realised to what an extent it had been fooled, an angry murmur ascended to the blue sky, and the murmur grew to a roar that was heard above the neighing of horses, the bleating of sheep, and even outdid the roar of the champion of the Northern Counties. It was a roar of baffled vengeance, for the back of the caravan was seen vanishing round the corner, on the high road to Beauly. The thoughtful student would now have had ample opportunity for studying the variations of the Gaelic and Celtic oath. Geordie alone was silent. His feelings were too deep for words. Never, even in his calmer moments, could he understand what made him press up with the foremost and proffer his four silver coins. But that he had done so was certain, for in his pocket the half sovereign rested solitary, and in his hand was a child's toy. And he had broken his promise to Jean. Well, only half of it, but surely as far as his happiness was concerned he might have broken the whole, for now he could not produce his pledge of good faith. At this moment the devil, in the guise of Black William, the smith, chose to proffer him a horn tumbler half full of whisky. "It's guid speerits, mon! Rale Glenlivet!"

Geordie had not broken his fast since early morning, and this, combined with the long ride and the heat of the day, had made him feel giddy and faint. Moreover, the odour of the whisky was borne refreshingly pungent to his nostrils. Be a man, Geordie! What though you have broken your compact in the letter, keep it as far as you can in the spirit!

"It's guid whusky, mon, tak' it, you're no lookin' very brawly."

Then a jeering voice, that of Sandy, the keeper. "Hoch! an' didn't ye ken that Geordie had turned teetotal? He jined the blue-ribboners when 'bonnie Jean' gave him the go-by!"

A shout of derisive laughter went up from the crowd. Geordie took the horn in his hand,

and-flung it full in the face of the last speaker! He has a very confused recollection of what followed after this episode. He was a tall, broadly built young fellow, but Sandy was in training for the Inverness sports, and had, the better to guard himself against poachers, studied the art of self-defence. A few minutes decided the victory, and Geordie found himself lying prone, whilst well-intentioned kindness forced "rale Glenlivet" against his clenched teeth, aud spilt it all over his clothes. Then Geordie swore. Yes, that "quate, douce laddie" swore deeply. He swore in Gaelic and English, and he swore some oaths peculiar to Easter Ross, his birthplace. I think he even astonished Sandy, whose vocabulary in this respect was by no means limited. Then he picked himself up, and, disdaining any assistance, cleft his way through the crowd, and went to the Tarradale stables. Here he washed away any marks of the fray that were washable, and surveyed himself in a fragment of mirror that hung in the harness room. And a pretty spectacle he beheld! His left eye was several artistic shades of blue and green, his nose and lip were bleeding, and he had lost a tooth. And oh how he reeked of whisky!

"But I didna swallow a drap," said Geordie to himself, not without a certain amount of triumph.

His homeward ride was slow and painful. It was yet too early in the afternoon for any market revellers to be on the road, so he had sufficient solitude to think over his distress. He also had sufficient courage to look the situation fairly in the face. His conclusion of the matter may be summed up in his own words.

"I'll mak' a clean breist o't, an' if she'll no believe me I canna help it. If she'll not trust me noo, she'll not trust me aifter merriage, so maybe it's as weel tae ken aforehand.”

This philosophical reflection did not comfort him as much as he had expected it to, and he added to himself—

"But I'll need tae clean mysel' a bit afore I see her."

The sun was still throwing strong rays of heat athwart the land. It was behind Geordie, but nevertheless he was glad when he reached the deep shadows cast by the Conan woods. His head was aching badly, and he felt sick and giddy. He began to wonder if he could hold up until he reached home. He swayed in his saddle and recovered himself, then again and once more saved a fall. The third time he fell heavily on the road. When he came to himself his head was resting on a softer lap than that of mother earth. Gradually, growing more distinct as the buzzing in his head grew less loud, the following conversation came to him.

A man's voice first expostulating rather angrily. "Hoots, lass, he's as fou as he can be! Canna ye feel the smell o' the speerits off him?"

Then a girl's tones, earnest, indignant"And I tell you he is not. It's a sunstroke." Then the man again, impatiently—

"What's the use o' argufyin' wi' a wuman that winna believe the eevidence o' her senses?" At the next words Geordie felt that the whole earth could not contain his joy.

"I tell you I know he wouldn't, because he promised me." And the voice was Jean's. MYRA K. G. WARRAND.

"MUILEANN DUBH." 20 ST. ANDREW SQUARE, EDINBURGH, 2nd October, 1899. DEAR SIR,-After parting with the members of the Clan Mackay deputation at Inverness, I spent a few days with my friend, Rev. George M. Munro, at Kincraig. One afternoon we had a walk of some miles from Speyside to near the front of the Grampions. Standing on an eminence, and overlooking a beautiful meadow on the east side of a river which falls into the river Spey, Mr. Munro, pointing to the remains of a building close to a burn which meandeared through the meadow, said “That is the 'Muileann Dubh'" (Black Hill). 66 6 'Muileann Dubh,' Muileann Dubh!" I reiterated, "an air, and words accompanying the air, were familiar to me in my young days. It is quite possible that the one before us is or was the real Mill." My friend said he knew nothing of it, but pointing to a man who stood close to a bridge that spanned the burn, said-"Yonder is the tenant of the farm, he may be able to tell you something about it." We hailed the man, and I asked him if he knew of any tradition in connection with the place. Pointing to a huge boulder on the summit of the mountain about two miles north-east of where we stood, "That stone," he said, "is called MacCailein Mòr,' or Argyll's Stone, on account of one of the chiefs of Clan Campbell, with his followers, passing a night beside it. As they emerged into the plain below, one of the Earl's pipers composed, if not the air, the words," which he repeated as follows:

Tha caoraich agus gabhradh 'sa Mhuileann dubh 'sa Muileann dubh,

Tha caoraich agus gabhradh 'sa Mhuileann dubh o shamhradh,

Tha'n crodh breith nan laogh anns a' Mhuileann dnbh, 'sa Mhuileann dubh,

Tha'n crodh breith nan laogh anns a' Mhuileann o shamhradh,

Tha nead na circe-fraoich anns a' Mhuileann dubh, 'sa Mhuileann dubh,

Tha nead na circe-fraoich ann 'sa Mhuileann dubh o shamhradh,

Tha Mhuileann dubh air thuraman, tha Mhuileann dubh air thuraman,

Tha Mhuileann dubh air thuraman, tha Mhuileann is srann aig.

Probably some reader of the Celtic may be able to give further information regarding the origin of this old song.—Yours, &c., ALASTAIR MACAOIDH.

HE village of Kenmore, on Loch Tay, in Breadalbane, is one of the sweetest places in Scotland. It is situated on a headland formed by a bay on one side, and the river Tay on the other. To the north rises the richly wooded Drummond Hill, on the east are the grounds of Taymouth Castle, Loch Tay stretches away westward, and on the south is a range of hills separating the valley of the Tay from Glenquaich.

Not far from Kenmore, off the northern shore of Loch Tay, is Sybilla's Isle, named after the wife of Alexander I. She was buried there in

1172, and her husband founded a priory on the island to her memory. The ruins of the building can still be seen on the island. The priory is said to have been the first residence of the Breadalbane Campbells in the district.

About two miles along the loch is the small clachan of Fearnan, the name meaning the alder land. It was once possessed by the Robertsons, who lie buried with some Macgregors in the little graveyard on the hillside above the village. Another pretty little clachan on the north shore of Loch Tay is Lawers, where can be seen the ancient mansion house in which the famous prophetess called the "Good Lady of Lawers" resided. One of the lady's predictions was that

when a tree growing near the church of Lawers should become large enough to spread its branches over the roof of the building, the church would be divided. The Disruption of 1843 is said to have been the fulfilment of this prophecy. Ben Lawers rises high above the village that bears its name, and means the mountain of the new day or dawn. It can be climbed with ease, and the view from the summit is considered one of the finest in Scotland. There is a lonely mountain tarn on Ben Lawers called Lochan-a'-chait. It is believed to be very deep, but the high hills which surround it, and its bottom of peat, probably

THE HIGHLAND SOCIETIES are all busy just now. The Lewis and Harris Association hold their annual gathering on 16th November, when a large gathering of the sons and daughters of Eilean an Fhraoich is expected. A history of Lewis is being prepared by a distinguished native of the island, and promises to be a valuable addition to our Celtic literature.

account for the dark appearance of the water. On the south side of Loch Tay, opposite Lawers, is Ardtalnaig, meaning the height of the flooded stream. Tradition says King Malcolm II. founded a castle here, but not a vestige of it can now be seen.

There are numerous other places of interest on Loch Tayside and the surrounding country, including Killin, where on an island in the Dochart the Macnabs buried their dead; and Loch Kinardochy, high up on the moors not far from Schiehallion, where ghosts are said to wander by night.

ERIC STAIR KERR.

THE CLAN MACMILLAN SOCIAL takes place on 23rd November. The learned chief of the society, Rev. Dr. MacMillan, is demitting office, and a successor will require to be appointed. It will not be easy to select a clansman for chief who would worthily fill the position so long occupied by the genial exModerator of the Free Church Assembly.