But after all, the view from the castle tower would be worth the journey thither. All about the placid water lies gleaming like a mirror beneath the threatening sky; here we see a flock of water-fowl, so tame that they scarcely heed the fishing-boats; there a pair of stately swans, many of which are on the lake; off yonder is the old town with its spire sharp against the horizon; and near at hand, the encircling hills and the low green meadows, a delightful setting for the flashing gem of the lake--all combine to make a scene that would be inspiring even if the name of Mary Stuart had never been associated with Loch Leven. As we drift away from the island, the words of a minor poet come to us, strangely sweet and appropriate: "No warden's fire shall e'er again Illume Loch Leven's bosom fair; No clarion shrill of armed men The breeze across the lake shall bear; But while remains a stone of thine It shall be linked to royal fame-- For here the Rose of Stuart's line Hath left the fragrance of her name!" The Loch Leven anglers have made two or three well-appointed hotels possible in Kinross, and Green's, where we stopped for tea, seemed ideal for its quiet retirement and old-fashioned comfort. St. Andrews, by the sea, has a combination of attractions, of which the famous golf links will occur to many people on first thought. There is no town in Scotland more popular as a seaside resort and the numerous hotels are crowded in season. But the real merits of St. Andrews are the ones least known to the world at large--its antiquity, the ruins of its once stately cathedral, its grim though much shattered castle, and its university, the oldest in Scotland--one and all, if better known, would bring many tourists who do not care for golf links and resort hotels. Hither we came from Kinross by the way of Cupar, of which we know nothing save the old Scotch saw of a headstrong man, "He that will to Cupar maun to Cupar," but why anyone should be so determined to go to Cupar is not clear. It is a mean-looking town with cobblestone pavement so rough that it tried every rivet in our car, and nothing could be drearier than the rows of gray slate-roofed houses standing dejectedly in the rain.