‘Well, I told you, I wished to have samples of the Skye stones beside me.’ [Sidenote: CROFTER INQUISITIVENESS] ‘To think o’ a man keepin’ stones to look at them! But are they worth onythin’? Can you make onythin’ oot o’ them?’ ‘Yes to me they are worth a great deal, for they show me what Skye was like long, long ago. But it is getting dark now, and I really must push on to Lonfern, if you will point out the track.’ ‘Ay, ay; well, well, that’s queer enough. To think that ye wud be comin’ all the way frae the south country to pick up a wheen stanes at Loch Staffin. And I’ll warrant the bag’s heavy too. So it is, whatever’ (gently lifting it from my back). ‘Well, my friend, I must say good night, if you won’t help me to find Lonfern.’ ‘Ow ay, but I wull that. D’ye see thae twa peat-stacks. Weel then, ye’ll be keepin’ round by them to the burn, and ye’ll be coming to the wood plank across the burn, and ye’ll cross over there, and then ye’ll be keepin’ straught on by the side o’ the dyke, and in a wee while you will be seein’ Lonfern forenenst you.’ ‘Thank you, thank you, and good night.’ ‘Gude nicht, and I’m wussin’ ye safe hame wi’ that bag.’ [Sidenote: A CROFTER HOME IN SKYE] I had been told by my Snizort friends that Jessie Nicolson’s cottage could easily be found, for it was the largest of the row that formed the hamlet. But by the time I arrived there, the darkness had settled down, so that only by stooping, in order to get the outline of the roofs against the western sky, could one judge of the relative size of the huts. At last I selected what seemed to be the right one, and knocked at the door. There was no answer for a time, and while waiting I could hear, to the left hand, under the same roof, the heavy breathing and crunching noises of the cows. After a second knock, the door was eventually opened, and the figure of an elderly woman appeared against the faint light of a candle in the room to the right hand. I asked if this was Mrs. Nicolson’s. Instead of answering, she began to pass her hand over my face, neck, and shoulders. Not knowing whether she might be deaf and dumb, I shouted out that I had come from the Manse of Snizort. At the sound of these words, she took me by the arm and almost dragged me into the room with the light. ‘Frae the Manse o’ Snizort, are ye?’ she exclaimed. ‘And very welcome here.’ Planting me down by the side of the peat fire, which she raked together and stacked up with more fuel, she plied me with questions as to how they all were at the manse, and at every additional detail of news, her joy seemed to increase. By degrees her family of well-grown sons and daughters began to assemble, and to every one I was introduced afresh as from the Manse of Snizort, and had to answer a similar round of questions. Meanwhile the old lady, from a handsome brass-bound chest of drawers (perhaps a marriage gift from her friends at Snizort) which stood on