he place of imagination. The modern equivalents of
Romance attracted me, and, with my increasing grasp of reality, my gift
of vision faded. As I had hitherto dreamed of knight-errants, of
corsairs and of outlaws, I now dreamed of cowboys, of gold-seekers, of
beach-combers. Fancy painted scenes in which I, too, should play a
rousing part. I read avidly all I could find dealing with the Far West,
and ever my wistful gaze roved over the grey sea. The spirit of Romance
beaconed to me. I, too, would adventure in the stranger lands, and face
their perils and brave their dangers. The joy of the thought exulted in
my veins, and scarce could I bide the day when the roads of chance and
change would be open to my feet.

It is strange that in all these years I confided in no one. Garry, who
was my brother and my dearest friend, would have laughed at me in that
affectionate way of his. You would never have taken us for brothers. We
were so different in temperament and appearance that we were almost the
reverse of each other. He was the handsomest boy I have ever seen,
frank, fair-skinned and winning, while I was dark, dour and none too
well favoured. He was the best runner and swimmer in the parish, and the
idol of the village lads. I cared nothing for games, and would be found
somewhere among the heather hills, always by my lone self, and nearly
always with a story book in my pocket. He was clever, practical and
ambitious, excelling in all his studies; whereas, except in those which
appealed to my imagination, I was a dullard and a dreamer.

Yet we loved each others as few brothers do. Oh, how I admired him! He
was my ideal, and too often the hero of my romances. Garry would have
laughed at my hero-worship; he was so matter-of-fact, effective and
practical. Yet he understood me, my Celtic ideality, and that shy
reserve which is the armour of a sensitive soul. Garry in his fine
clever way knew me and shielded me and cheered me. He was so buoyant and
charming he heartened you like Spring sunshine, and braced you like a
morning wind on the mountain top. Yes, not excepting Mother, Garry knew
me better than any one has ever done, and I loved him for it. It seems
overfond to say this, but he did not have a fault: tenderness, humour,
enthusiasm, sympathy and the beauty of a young god--all that was
manfully endearing was expressed in this brother of mine.

So we grew to manhood there in that West Highland country, and surely
our lives we