The ground, too, was stony and barren, and cut up by torrents that tear their way from the mountains; and in many places tumbled boulders and tree-trunks gave us plenty to do to get the horses over. It was better in the river-bed, and we rode them through a ford breast deep, and continued along a shingle-spit for a time; and then we saw signs of cultivation—tiny enclosures of starved oats and hay, a potato patch, and then a bit of road, leading past an old byre and a yard, to a little cottage on a green slope.
It might, indeed, have been a Highland crofter’s home—only built of boards instead of stone. A room had been added as it was wanted to the end, but the orginal dwelling, with its little green porch and window to one side, was just as when Mr. Macpherson built it for his wife; and here they have lived for nine years, and the children know no other home.
A path led up to the door through a plot enclosed by a rude fence, and a few flowers showed an attempt at a garden; and a little higher up the hill was another enclosure with currants and gooseberries.
Just here the mountains fell back, so that the western sun shone always full on the cottage; the river made a wide loop, partly encircling the rough ground about the house, which was covered with short, green grass.
Dismounting, I went up to the door and knocked. Great was the astonishment of the lady who opened to me! A visitor was so rare an event
