In the Highlands of Scotland there once lived a Laird of Brockburn, who would not believe in fairies. Although his sixth cousin on the mother's side, as he returned one night from a wedding, had seen the Men of Peace hunting on the sides of Ben Muich Dhui, dressed in green, and with silver-mounted bridles to their horses which jingled as they rode; and though Rory the fiddler having gone to play at a christening did never come home, but crossing a hill near Brockburn in a mist was seduced into a _Shian_[1] or fairy turret, where, as all decent bodies well believe, he is playing still--in spite, I say, of the wise saws and experience of all his neighbours, Brockburn remained obstinately incredulous. [Footnote 1: _Shian_, a Gaelic name for fairy towers, which by day are not to be told from mountain crags.] Not that he bore any ill-will to the Good People, or spoke uncivilly of them; indeed he always disavowed any feeling of disrespect towards them if they existed, saying that he was a man of peace himself, and anxious to live peaceably with whatever neighbours he had, but that till he had seen one of the _Daoine Shi_[2] he could not believe in them. [Footnote 2: _Daoine Shi_ (pronounced _Dheener Shee_) = Men of Peace.] Now one afternoon, between Hallowmas and Yule, it chanced that the Laird, being out on the hills looking for some cattle, got parted from his men and dogs and was overtaken by a mist, in which, familiar as the country was to him, he lost his way. In vain he raised his voice high, and listened low, no sound of man or beast came back to him through the thickening vapour. Then night fell, and darkness was added to the fog, so that Brockburn needed to sound every step with his _rung_[3] before he took it. [Footnote 3: _Rung_ = a thick stick.] Suddenly light footsteps pattered beside him, then Something rubbed against him, then It ran between his legs. The delighted Laird made sure that his favourite collie had found him once more. "Wow, Jock, man!" he cried; "but ye needna throw me on my face. What's got ye the night, that _you_ should lose your way in a bit mist?" To this a voice from the level of his elbow replied, in piping but patronizing tones; "Never did I lose my way in a mist since the night that Finn crossed over to Ireland in the Dawn of History. Eh, Laird! I'm weel acquaint with every bit path on the hill-side these hundreds of years, and I'll guide ye safe hame, never fear!" The hairs on Brockburn's head stood on end till they lifted his broad bonnet, and a damp chill broke out over him that was not the fog. But, for all that, he stoutly resisted the evidence of his senses, and only felt about him for the collie's head to pat, crying: "Bark! Jock, my mannie, bark! Then I'll recognize your voice, ye ken. It's no canny to hear ye speak like a Christian, my wee doggie." "I'm nae your doggie, I'm a Man of Peace," was the reply. "Dinna miscall your betters, Brockburn: why will ye not credit our existence, man?"