Very early one Sunday morning, while as yet all the world seemed asleep, a young lady stole out from the little hotel at Lairg, and wandered down by herself to the silent and beautiful shores of Loch Shin. The middle of March it was now, and yet the scene around her was quite summer-like; and she was a stranger from very far climes indeed, who had ventured into the Highlands at this ordinarily untoward time of the year; so that there was wonder as well as joy in her heart as she regarded the fairyland before her, for it was certainly not what she had been taught to expect. There was not a ripple on the glassy surface of the lake; every feature of the sleeping and faintly sunlit world was reflected accurately on the perfect mirror: the browns and yellows of the lower moorland; the faint purple of the birch-woods; the aerial blues of the distant hills, with here and there a patch of snow; and the fleecy white masses of the motionless clouds. It was a kind of dream-world—soft-toned and placid and still, the only sharp bit of colour being the scarlet-painted lines of a boat that floated double on that sea of glass. There was not a sound anywhere but the twittering of small birds; nor any movement but the slow rising into the air of a tiny column of blue smoke from a distant cottage; summer seemed to be here already, as the first light airs of the morning—fresh and clear and sweet—came stealing along the silver surface of the water, and only troubling the magic picture here and there in long trembling swathes. The young lady was of middle height, but looked taller than that by reason of her slight and graceful form; she was pale, almost sallow, of face, with fine features and a pretty smile; her hair was of a lustrous black; and so, too, were her eyes—which were large and soft and attractive. Very foreign she looked as she stood by the shores of this Highland loch; her figure and complexion and beautiful opaque soft dark eyes perhaps suggesting more than anything else the Spanish type of the Southern American woman; but there was nothing foreign about her attire; she had taken care about that; and if her jet-black hair and pale cheek had prompted her to choose unusual tones of colour, at all events the articles of her costume were all correct—the warm and serviceable ulster of some roughish yellow and gray material, the buff-coloured, gauntleted gloves, and the orange-hued Tam o’ Shanter which she wore quite as one to the manner born. For the rest, one could easily see that she was of a cheerful temperament; pleased with herself; not over shy, perhaps; and very straightforward in her look.