Not far in the rear was the beautiful little 'Silver Queen,' the fat lady looking ever so pleasant as she drove the one willing horse with his glittering harness all decked out in polished brass. This caravan was called the 'Silver Queen' because, for lightness' sake, much of her outside was built of aluminium, and its sheen on this bright January morning was, like stars on the sea, resplendent. Behind her, on a rocking-chair, sat Lotty herself, quietly knitting. Still more in the rear was a large light wagon with stores, tents, and baggage of all sorts. No wonder that the children in the little romantic towns through which they passed--many of them hardly yet dressed, so early was it--rushed to their doors to wave their caps or stockings at the show as it passed. The 'Gipsy Queen,' with her large windows chastely but brightly curtained, her varnish and her gilding, looked as elegant and beautiful outside as she did inside. And not a single article had been forgotten that might conduce to comfort or luxury. There was even a small yacht-piano in one corner of the large caravan, and bright fires of coal and coke burned in each. When they drew rein in the square of a small market-town to water the horses, quite a crowd of well-dressed, wondering people gathered round to see the sight. But one glance told them that this was no ordinary show, but gentle gipsies on a tour. Antony lifted Lotty down from the _coupé_ of her carriage after he had given orders to put the nose-bags on the horses and cover up their loins. Then, while Mary entered the large caravan to see about things generally, youth and beauty went gladsomely off hand in hand to look at the shops and make little purchases, for souvenirs in the shape of photos of scenery would be bought wherever they went. But every village all around and about here had a strange, romantic interest. It was, or had been, a Jacobite country, and the sturdy races still dwelt up among the mountains yonder whose forefathers had fought and died for bonny Prince Charlie. Though more than a hundred and fifty years had passed since Culloden, that unfortunate Prince, Antony soon found out, still held a place in story and song and deeply down in the hearts of the people. At one shop where our young folks called, Antony happened to allude to Charlie as the Pretender. He could see from the mantling blood in the shopkeeper's brow that he had made a mistake. 'Pardon me, sir,' he said, 'but you must not use that word in this part of the country, and still less up in the hills. Charles was the rightful king by descent from the ancient Stuart line, and no pretender.'