I was up and out early next morning, prey to the vivid desire that attacks many folk in new places--namely, to look on the fresh country and the new horizons--and, on going out, certainly the surprise was great. For I had imagined an utterly lonely and solitary habitation; instead, scarce half a mile away, down the steep brae-side at the top of which stood our commodious farm-house, ran a typically Scotch village street, the hamlet no doubt of Achnaleish. So steep was this hill-side that the village was really remote; if it was half a mile away in crow-flying measurement, it must have been a couple of hundred yards below us. But its existence was the odd thing to me: there were some four dozen houses, at the least, while we had not seen half that number since leaving Lairg. A mile away, perhaps, lay the shining shield of the western sea; to the other side, away from the village, I had no difficulty in recognising the river and the loch. The house, in fact, was set on a hog’s back; from all sides it must needs be climbed to. But, as is the custom of the Scots, no house, however small, should be without its due brightness of flowers, and the walls of this were purple with clematis and orange with tropæolum. It all looked very placid and serene and home-like. I continued my tour of exploration, and came back rather late for breakfast. A slight check in the day’s arrangements had occurred, for the head keeper, Maclaren, had not come up, and the second, Sandie Ross, reported that the reason for this had been the sudden death of his mother the evening before. She was not known to be ill, but just as she was going to bed she had thrown up her arms, screamed suddenly as if with fright, and was found to be dead. Sandie, who repeated this news to me after breakfast, was just a slow, polite Scotchman, rather shy, rather awkward. Just as he finished--we were standing about outside the back-door--there came up from the stables the smart, very English-looking Sefton. In one hand he carried the black hare. He touched his hat to me as he went in. “Just to show it to Mr Armytage, sir,” he said. “She’s as black as a boot.” He turned into the door, but not before Sandie Ross had seen what he carried, and the slow, polite Scotchman was instantly turned into some furtive, frightened-looking man. “And where might it be that you found that, sir?” he asked. Now, the black-hare superstition had already begun to intrigue me. “Why does that interest you?” I asked. The slow Scotch look was resumed with an effort. “It’ll no interest me,” he said. “I just asked. There are unco many black hares in Achnaleish.” Then his curiosity got the better of him. “She’d have been nigh to where the road passes by and on to Achnaleish?” he asked. “The hare? Yes, we found her on the road there.” Sandie turned away. “She aye sat there,” he said.