tep like an echo, as the string of an instrument answers its
concord; as love answers love in unison. I do not wonder that Scotchmen
love the heather; I am only surprised that so much heather should be
wasted on Scotchmen.

We had anticipated a fine marine view from the lighthouse, but in place of
it we could only see a sort of semi-luminous vapor, usually called a fog,
which enveloped ocean, island, and picturesque coast. We could not
discover the Island Battery opposite, which had bothered Sir William in
the siege of '45; but nevertheless, we could judge of the difficulty of
reaching it with a hostile force, screened as it was by its waves and
vapors. The lighthouse is striped with black and white bars, like a zebra,
and we entered it. One cannot help but admire such order and neatness, for
the lighthouse is a marvel of purity. We were everywhere--in the
bed-rooms, in the great lantern with its glittering lamps, in the hall,
the parlor, the kitchen; and found in all the same pervading virtue; as
fresh and sweet as a bride was that old zebra-striped lighthouse. The
Kavanaghs, brother and sister, live here entirely alone; what with books
and music, the ocean, the ships, and the sky, they have company enough.
One could not help liking them, they have such cheerful faces, and are so
kind and hospitable. Good bye, good friends, and peace be with you always!
On our route schooner-ward we danced back over the heather, Picton with
great joy carrying a small basket filled with his national fruit--a
present from the Kavanaghs. What a feast we shall have, fresh fish,
lobster, and above all--potatoes!

It is a novel sight to see the firs and spruces on this stormy sea-coast.
They grow out, and not up; an old tree spreading over an area of perhaps
twenty feet in diameter, with the inevitable spike of green in its centre,
and that not above a foot and a half from the ground. The trees in this
region are possessed of extraordinary sagacity; they know how hard the
wind blows at times, and therefore put forth their branches in full squat,
just like country girls at a pic-nic.

On Sunday the wind is still ahead, and Picton and I determine to abandon
the "Balaklava." How long she may yet remain in harbor is a matter of
fate; so, with brave, resolute hearts, we start off for a five-mile walk,
to McGibbet's, the only owner of a horse and wagon in the vicinity of
Louisburgh. Squirrels, robins, and rabbits appear and disappear in the
road