Bright October was come, the misty-bright October, Bright October was come to burn and glen and cottage; But the cottage was empty, the _matutine_ deserted. Who are these that walk by the shore of the salt sea water? Here in the dusky eve, on the road by the salt sea water? Who are these? and where? it is no sweet seclusion; Blank hill-sides slope down to a salt sea loch at their bases, Scored by runnels, that fringe ere they end with rowan and alder: Cottages here and there outstanding bare on the mountain, Peat-roofed, windowless, white; the road underneath by the water. There on the blank hill-side, looking down through the loch to the ocean, There with a runnel beside, and pine-trees twain before it, There with the road underneath, and in sight of coaches and steamers, Dwelling of David Mackaye, and his daughters Elspie and Bella, Sends up a column of smoke the Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich. And of the older twain, the elder was telling the younger, How on his pittance of soil he lived, and raised potatoes, Barley, and oats, in the bothie where lived his father before him; Yet was smith by trade, and had travelled making horse-shoes Far; in the army had seen some service with brave Sir Hector, Wounded soon, and discharged, disabled as smith and soldier; He had been many things since that,—drover, schoolmaster, Whitesmith,—but when his brother died childless came up hither; And although he could get fine work that would pay in the city, Still was fain to abide where his father abode before him. And the lassies are bonnie,—I’m father and mother to them,— Bonnie and young; they’re healthier here, I judge, and safer, I myself find time for their reading, writing, and learning. So on the road they walk by the shore of the salt sea water, Silent a youth and maid, and elders twain conversing. This was the letter that came when Adam was leaving the cottage. If you can manage to see me before going off to Dartmoor, Come by Tuesday’s coach through Glencoe (you have not seen it), Stop at the ferry below, and ask your way (you will wonder, There however I am) to the Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich. And on another scrap, of next day’s date, was written:— It was by accident purely I lit on the place; I was returning, Quietly, travelling homeward by one of these wretched coaches; One of the horses cast a shoe; and a farmer passing Said, Old David’s your man; a clever fellow at shoeing Once; just here by the firs; they call it Tober-na-vuolich. So I saw and spoke with David Mackaye, our acquaintance. When we came to the journey’s end some five miles farther, In my unoccupied evening I walked back again to the bothie. But on a final crossing, still later in date, was added: Come as soon as you can; be sure and do not refuse me. Who would have guessed I should find my haven and end of my travel,