t seems a word I ought to use at once, now we are on Scottish soil.

Nobody need tell me that the first houses of Scotland have any
resemblance to the last houses of England. Maybe the country hasn't had
time to change much, just in crossing the bridge. I won't argue about
that. But the houses are as different from English houses as Scotsmen
are from Englishmen. Could you ever mistake a Scot for an un-Scot? No!
Our wide-apart eyes and our dreamy yet practical expression, our high
cheekbones, our sensitive, clear-cut nostrils, and the something
mysterious in our gaze which no one can explain or understand, not even
ourselves, is all our own. I have just found this out since crossing the
border. And am I not a MacDonald of Dhrum?

I can't say that the first Scots I met--men, women, or children--looked
like descendants of the robber hordes who used to make the Borderland
their home; yet I paid them the compliment to believe they were such.
And you never would dream that the great-great-grandchildren of raiders
could have built for themselves the mild, solid, self-respecting houses
these people have dotted along the road where King Arthur passed, and
where some of the most romantic battles of history have been fought. But
so it is. And there the houses are. The people have found a kind of
stone to build them with, which looks like pressed roses; and there are
door-stones and even gate-stones of such an incredible cleanness, that
some women must devote their whole lives to their service, as nuns do to
prayer.

Soon we came to the village and the post-office of Gretna Green,
bristling with picture post cards. There was the expected group of
whitewashed, one-story houses plastered with exciting notices: "Old
Priests' Relics," "Marriage Registers Kept," and delightful things like
that. So far, the scene was just what I'd imagined; but there was one
feature in the picture which made me feel I must be dreaming, it was so
surprising and extraordinary.

In front of the Blacksmith's Shop stood the quaintest vehicle out of a
museum. It was an antique chaise such as no one in the last five
generations can have seen except in an illustrated book, or an old
coloured print. Two handsome gray horses were harnessed to it, looking
quite embarrassed, as if they hated being made conspicuous, and hoped
that they might not be recognized by their smart acquaintances. As we
came gliding past, they turned away their faces, lest our
motor--chri