It was so cut up by winding stairs and queer little passages that there was scarcely a room of decent dimensions within its walls. It was full of legend, of tragic memories, and did not even lack the ghost, a mailed and headless warrior who haunted the dungeon-room where he had been done to death. It was whitewashed or harled, but looked sadly in need of the washer’s brush. The rains of many a year had soddened and discoloured it, while, here and there, at angles specially exposed, there were green patches where the moss and lichen clung. Yet it made a picture of indescribable beauty, not untouched with pathos, as the cradle of every great race must be, its history woven in with its very stones. People came from far and near to see it, and many artists had lingered enchanted over its picturesque detail. It stood on a small, green plateau facing south, sheltered at the back by the pine-clad hill of Creagh, which stood, like a sentinel, guarding the great moor of Creagh that stretched away in the distance till it joined the lands of Breadalbane towards Loch Tay. With the moor of Creagh the Mackinnon property ended on that side, but it was still a goodly-sized estate, with shooting of some value, though it had been cut down to as narrow dimensions as the extravagance of some of the Mackinnons had dared to cut it. But never, never had Achree been in such dire straits as now. When Isla left the gateway beside the little lodge and turned down the beautiful road, she lifted her head and took a long deep breath. For the morning air was good, though there was a nip of frost in it, and the red sun lay warm and kindly on the clear summit of Ben Voirlich, of which, at that point, an exquisite view could be obtained, though it was in the next few steps lost again. The ruddy glow was reflected in the clear waters of Loch Earn, and altogether the scene was one of incomparable beauty, and it was knit into the very fibre of Isla Mackinnon’s being. It was her home, and the people were her own. She had known none other. A few rare trips to London when her cousins, the richer Barras Mackinnons, had had a house for the season, with occasional visits to them at their home in one of the islands of the western seas, comprised her whole knowledge of the world outside her own glen. But beyond that she had neither asked nor desired anything else. The things she most passionately desired and prayed for--peace for Achree and decent comfort in which to live--were denied her. She lived in hope, however; but this day was to see its utter quenching, so far as any earthly intelligence could predict. The dogs, gambolling in front, knew their destination--the Earn village; that is, if they did not meet David Bain with the post-gig on the road.