there was not so
much as a stray stick or bit of paper. It looked to me a deeply
religious place, and Basil said perhaps it was trying to be worthy of
St. Ninian, who first brought Christianity to Scotland. He was a native
of the Solway shore, but went to Rome, where they liked him very much
and made him a bishop. Then he felt impelled to convert his own people,
so he sailed from France and landed at the island of Whithorn, which is
now an excursion place from Newton-Stewart. That sounds irreverent, but,
after all, an excursion is only a kind of pilgrimage; and even if people
are catching fish or eating them, they can be pleased to be at the one
place in Scotland where Christianity has gone on without interruption by
Vikings or others for fifteen hundred years.

Then, besides, Newton-Stewart has a monument of Samuel Rutherford to
live up to. And they ought to have one of his namesake, Samuel
Rutherford Crockett, who has done so much for Galloway.

It was in honour of his "Raiders" that we took the longest way to Ayr.
Some of the best things in that book happened near Loch Trool, so we
wanted to see Loch Trool. Bruce was there too; but this was a Crockett
tour. We should have gone perhaps, even if the run had been dull, for
it's only thirteen miles from Newton-Stewart, paradise of fishermen, to
the hidden lake; but the thirteen miles turned out to be a panorama of
beauty. Sir S. was surprised by its loveliness, though he knew by heart
Burns's poem, "The Banks of the Cree." We did not come at once to the
river; but from House o' Hill (delicious name!) we plunged into a wild,
forgotten paradise. The road lay under an arbour of trees like an
emerald tunnel, with a break here and there in the green wall to show a
blue shimmer of mountains and hills in the distance. We seemed to have
slipped into the hole leading to fairyland and pulled the hole in after
us; but I knew I was not going to enjoy getting there as much as if my
gray bonnet and coat had been on the front seat instead of Mrs. West's
purple beauties. It was suddenly that we came into sight and sound of
the river, and so deep was the stillness that we might have strayed into
the haunt of a sleeping nymph. Nothing moved but the rushing brown
water, and there was no sound, when we stopped to listen, but its joyous
song and the humming of bees in bracken and heather.

Basil can "make believe" more easily and less stiffly than Sir S.,
because he is an author, and used