I saw myself again a boy in my native town of St. Conan’s on the northeast of Scotland. The country was clad in the russet mellow robes of harvest. I could see the Conan Water pursuing its quiet journey to the sea between finely wooded banks. On the north bank there was the Craig, a little hamlet consisting of St. Conan’s Episcopal Church, the Parsonage, the Craig inn, where the “Defiance” coach used to stop and change horses on its way to and from the city, and a few cottages; on the opposite bank the long straggling village of St. Conan’s. St. Conan’s had for many centuries been a place of considerable importance; its Moot Hill, where in olden days the Earl of Buchan held his Court and where justice was executed, was still pointed out to the curious. A fine old one-arched bridge spanned the river and formed the bond of union between Craig and St. Conan’s. The main street of the village ran parallel with the river and ended eastward in the market square, where stood the old Presbyterian parish church, the old parish school and the principal places of business. On this day which stood out so clearly in my vision, the school was deserted and the whole village was more than usually quiet. The flag on the tall staff in the square was floating at half-mast; the shutters were on every shop window, and the blinds were down in every house. At intervals the tolling of a bell resounded through the air. Groups of men in their best Sunday “blacks” were wending their way towards the great entrance gate of the castle. The school children were all on the qui vive for what was about to happen. I could see myself among the rest, a lad of twelve, comfortably clad in homespun, eagerly watching for the funeral cortege that would soon appear. At last it came. No hideous hearse was there; but relays of the local volunteer company, in their picturesque tartan trews and scarlet tunics, took turns in bearing the body to its last resting-place. Colonel Forbes, the brother of our “auld laird” had been a famous soldier, and the men who loved his family and name were carrying him to his burial after the manner that belonged to the Forbeses of Glenconan. In front of all strode a stalwart piper, in kilt and plaid of the same dark green tartan, that of the Clan Forbes, playing a weird and mournful coronach. In my vision I could see the long procession take its way by the main street bridge towards St. Conan’s church on the Craig. At the gate it was met by a little white-robed company of men and boys, who turned and led the way through the churchyard, the clergyman reciting the introductory sentences of the Anglican burial service. When they reached the church door, six of the oldest tenants on the Glenconan estate took the casket from the bearers and carried it up the nave to the chancel steps, where the first part of the office was said.