CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTER PAGE I. THE FIRST LETTER 1 II. THE SECOND LETTER 15 III. THE THIRD LETTER 37 IV. THE FOURTH LETTER 57 V. THE SHIP SETS SAIL 80 VI. A NEW EXPERIENCE 106 VII. A SUNDAY IN GLASGOW 126 VIII. THE ROARING GAME 146 IX. THE END OF THE SESSION 173 X. ARROCHAR 193 XI. A RIVAL 215 XII. ‘YOU MUST GIVE ME AN ANSWER’ 232 THE LINDSAYS. _PROLOGUE.--FOUR LETTERS._ CHAPTER I. THE FIRST LETTER. _Hubert Blake to Sophy Meredith._ THE CASTLE FARM, MUIRBURN, KYLESHIRE, N.B., _Sept. 12, 187-_. MY DEAR SOPHY, I only arrived here last night, so you see I am losing no time in redeeming my promise. I can hardly tell you what I think of my new cousins; they are not to be known in a day, I can see that much. As for the country and its inhabitants generally--well, they are as different from an English county and English country-folks as if they were in different continents, and that is all I can say at present. I left the railway at a tiny station called Kilmartin, and found ‘the coach’ waiting in the station yard. It was not a coach, but a queer dumpy omnibus, about two-thirds of the size of a London ’bus, with three big, raw-boned horses harnessed to it. I was lucky enough to get a seat in front beside the driver. It was just a little before sunset; and I wish I could put before you in words the freshness of the scene. We were ascending a rising ground in a very leisurely fashion. On either side of the road was a steep bank thickly clothed with crowsfoot and wild thyme. Above us on either side stretched a belt of Scotch firs. The sunset rays shone red on the trunks of the pines, and here and there one could catch through them a sight of the ruddy west, showing like a great painted window in a cathedral. The air was soft, and laden with the sweet smell of the firs, and yet it was cool and exhilarating. As soon as we got to the top of the ridge we began to rattle down the other side at a great rate. It was really very pleasant, and thinking to conciliate the weather-beaten coachman at my side, I confided to him my opinion that of all species of travelling coaching was the most delightful. ‘Specially on a winter’s nicht, wi’ yer feet twa lumps o’ ice, an’ a wee burn o’ snaw-watter runnin’ doon the nape o’ yer neck!’ responded the Scotch Jehu.