The place has changed but little since Scott last visited it, and the wanderer by the loch’s margin may, with the atmosphere of the past still about him, indulge in all the pleasures of reverie and recollection undisturbed. At the present day hardly a sound is to be heard there but the lapse of wavelets on the pebbly beach, and the sighing of the wind through the branches of the immemorial oaks. Occasionally, on a summer evening, when the air is still, the far-off beat of paddles comes faintly across the lake, as the steamer threads its passage among the islands. But for the rest of the time the call sometimes of the peacocks on the lawn before a storm, and, at night, the harsh cry of wild-fowl making flight for the marshes at the river’s mouth, form the only addition to the harmony of the wind and the waters. A HIGHLAND REEL. Much study, truly, becomes a weariness of the flesh. After a long day’s seclusion over desk and books the cobwebs begin to gather about one’s brain, and stronger and stronger grows the longing to look upon the face of one’s fellows. There are fair faces, too, to look upon, and bright-lipped laughter to listen to not far away; and the shriek of a fiddle or the skirl of the pipes is all that is needed to set light footsteps tripping on a broad barn floor. Down with pamphlet and pen, therefore; on with a heavy coat in case of rain, and out into the roaring night. A heavy “carry” is tearing across the sky, but the air is fresh and clear; and see, away below through the darkness, by the loch-side, shining hospitable and bright, are the lights of Gartachraggan. Away, then, by the steading, where the patient beasts are stirring in their byres, and a breath is caught of the rich warm mash preparing for their evening meal. Away through the whin-haughs, where the owls answer each other with silvery hootings, and again and again overhead there is heard the creaking wing of belated snipe beating to and fro. How the wind sighs in the naked hedges, with a louder whisper where the thick-leaved holly-trees are set! One is tempted to linger under the soft shelter of the wood, where the air is rich with the fragrance of the undergrowth, and the stillness gives a feeling of pleasant security by contrast with the roar and sough of the storm in the tree-tops far above. The stones of the dry-dyke here are covered close with the clinging tendrils of a small-leaved ivy, and wild strawberry and wild geranium in summer star with white and pink the mossy crannies. A pleasant spot it is, therefore, at that time of year, to linger in, to watch the red squirrel frolic on the road, and the chaffinch build his mossy home overhead. But to-night one’s thoughts are otherwise. It is cold, and the south wind is roaring in the wood, hustling the withered leaves to limbo. Down the hill, therefore, at a blithesome pace, jousting and jesting with the storm, till a glimpse of the realm of Oberon is caught below--the foam-swept loch with its lonely islets,