ite a little circle of friends about the fire that evening;
Long Lauchie MacDonald and three of his grown-up sons had come over for
a chat, and of course Weaver Jimmie was there, having been turned out
of Kirsty John's house at the point of the potato masher.

Like most of the Highlanders, Long Lauchie was aptly described by his
name. He was a tall, thin, attenuated man. Everything about him
seemed to run to a point and vanish; his long, thin hands, his flimsy
pointed beard, even his long nose and ears helped out his character.
He rarely indulged in conversation, coming out of an habitual reverie
only occasionally to make a remark. Nevertheless he was of a sociable
turn and was often seen at Big Malcolm's fireside.

The company sat round in a comfortable, hump-backed circle, emitting
clouds of smoke and discussing the affairs of the Empire; for these
men's affections were still set on the old land, and that which touched
Britain was vital to them.

Then Old Farquhar started upon a tale, so long and rambling that Rory
took his fiddle and strummed impatiently in the background. Scotty
understood enough of Gaelic to gather that it was the story of a
beautiful maiden who had died that night when her father and brother
and lover lay slain in the bloody massacre of Glencoe.

Impatient of the high-flown Gaelic phrases, Scotty flew to Hamish, and
his indulgent chum put aside the book and told him the story, and why
the MacDonalds hated the name of Orange. Scotty went back to the fire,
his cheeks aflame with excitement. Hereafter he would fight everything
and anything remotely connected with the name of Orange. See if he
wouldn't!

The conversation had turned to quite a different subject. Weaver
Jimmie had the floor now, and had almost forgotten his embarrassing
appendages in the thrill of relating his one great story; the story of
how his brother fought the Fenians at Ridgeway.

"Eh, eh," sighed Long Lauchie, "it would maybe be what the prophets
would be telling, indeed, about wars and rumours of wars!"

For Long Lauchie not only saw sermons in stones, and books in the
running brooks, but discerned in the everyday occurrences about him
fulfilment of dire prophecy.

"Hooch!" cried Big Malcolm, "I would rather be having a Fenian raid any
day than an Orangeman living in the same township."

Long Lauchie sadly shook his head and went off into a series of sighs
and ejaculations, as was his way, receding farther and