It was of that kind peculiar to some parts of Perthshire, where the subordinate hills, rising a thousand feet and more above the valley, are entirely covered with dusky pines, taking away all that appearance of blackness and desolation presented by naked mountain masses, and adding softness and beauty to the landscape, which would otherwise be stern and grim. Nor were the glassy loch and the murmuring torrent wanting there, nor those passes where the mountains approach each other, and make them, like that of Killiecrankie, excel even the famous Vale of Tempe. Though not very impressionable by Nature, Holcroft, influenced by the good things he was imbibing, said something about the beauty of the scenery, to which Lord Aberfeldie responded, adding, with a laugh, 'I do enjoy life in a shooting-box, and of all the entrancing sports to me there is none like stalking the deer.' With his sodden knickerbocker suit drying slowly upon him in the mountain wind, Holcroft could only assent to this faintly, and wished, perhaps, that, like Stratherroch, he wore a kilt, and could wring the water out of the plaits thereof. 'Of old in Scotland,' resumed Lord Aberfeldie, as he lit his briar-root pipe, 'no man was deemed perfect in the craft of hunting till he had landed a salmon from the pool, shot an eagle on the wing, and killed a stag. But, when here in a shooting-box, I always thank heaven that I am at least fifteen miles from a telegraph wire, that letters can only come once a day, and just before dinner, and bills and lawyers' letters seldom or never at all. Have a glass of something before you lunch, Dugald,' he said, addressing his venerable keeper; 'I know you will prefer Glenlivet to all the Clicquot and Moet in the world.' 'A cless, thank you kindly, my lord,' replied Dugald, touching his bonnet, 'though my mouth can hold more of whateffer it be.' And, bowing to the company, Dugald drained it in quick time. 'I daresay, Holcroft,' said Allan, 'you would prefer the deer driven to being stalked?' 'Infinitely!' replied the other, as he quaffed a bumper of sparkling Moselle. 'Well, I for one do not,' said the Master, emphatically. 'The Highlander of old would follow a stag for days, or even for weeks, if necessary,' observed Lord Aberfeldie, with kindling eyes, 'sleeping in his plaid among the heather, he would lie where night found him. With his long gaff he would catch a salmon between the water and the sky; but when stalking he had no conception of the brutal German battues now so common in the Highlands, and so degrading to sport,' he added; in his energy, forgetting that there was something of rebuke in his remarks, which certainly made Holcroft's cheek redden with annoyance, and his rather shifty eyes to lower. The Master, aware that this subject was rather a hobby with his father, hastened to change the conversation by observing,