But what is this--that jig-jig-jigging of engines? A small steam yacht is coming into the loch, and--gracious goodness! there are ladies on board. To cover, all three, behind the boat, hang on by the gunwale, and trust in Providence to keep the yacht at a respectable distance. One has no ambition at such moments to court the suffrages even of the most delectable society. But the danger moves past, and though the fair ones on deck do smile at the phenomenal movements of our boat, and the ominous absence of occupants, who is a whit the worse? They will laugh with us, rather than at us, should we meet. The breeze has freshened a little now, and will be enough to carry us up the loch amongst the currents and against the outflowing tide. Yonder goes the ferry-boat, crossing from Shian. It has a waggonette and horses on board, and the sweeps carry it over but slowly. The long low island there, with its few stunted bushes, is seldom visited, and remains a favourite haunt of the graceful sea-swallows. Two months ago every grassy ledge upon its sides would have its couple of sea-swallow’s eggs. See yonder, just beyond the rocky point, swimming quietly about, with watchful, intelligent eyes, there is the black head of a seal. As the boat gets round the end of Craigailleach, the ruin of the ancient castle of Barcaldine, on the low neck of land across which the road winds from Connal, comes into sight. In the days of which Sir Walter Scott speaks in his “Lord of the Isles,” when against the Bruce in Artornish Castle “Barcaldine’s arm was high in air,” there was scantier cultivation around the site of that black stronghold. The shrub ivy was not waving then from its beacon turret, and the retainers whose thatched cottages are still scattered among the fields around were rather caterans and pirates than peaceful crofters. Now, however, as Mr William Freeland puts it-- The freebooters, reiving and killing, No longer swoop down from their glens, But delve by the bothie and shieling, Or shepherd their flocks on the bens. The mountains in front seem to rise higher as we approach, and to cast a deeper silence on the narrowing water and motionless woods at their base. Barcaldine House, as secluded and delightful a spot as any in the Highlands, with its old-fashioned gardens and vineries, lies hidden among these woods.