And here, again, as the hours crept by, was something of a more practical nature to remind him of the now far-distant strath.  In order to save him from the hurry of a twenty-minutes’ railway-station dinner, Lady Adela had ordered a luncheon-basket to be packed for him, and her skill and forethought in this direction were unequalled, as many a little shooting-party had joyfully discovered.  When Lionel leisurely began to explore the contents of the basket, he was proud to think that it was under her own immediate supervision that these things had been put together for him.  There was some kind of sentimental interest attaching to the chicken and tongue and galantine, to the salad and biscuits and cake and what not; and he knew that it was no servant who had thought of filling a small tin canister with peaches and grapes, even as he knew that only Lady Adela was aware of his preference for the particular dry Sillery of which a half-bottle here lay in its covering of straw.  As he took out the things and placed them on the seat beside him, he could have imagined that a pair of very gentle hands had arranged that repast for him.  Then from this much too sumptuous banquet his mind wandered away back to the simple fare that old Robert used to bring forth from the fishing-bag, when Miss Honnor had taken her place among the bracken.  Again he was with her in that little dell away among the solitudes of the hills, with the murmur of the Geinig coming up to them from the chasm below.  The sunlight flashed on the rippling burn at their feet; the leaves of the birches trembled, and no more than trembled, in the still air; the deep, clear blue of the sky overhead told them to be in no hurry—­they would have to wait till the afternoon for clouds.  In the perfect silence (for the humming of the bees in the heather was hardly a sound at all) he could hear every soft modulation of her voice—­though, to be sure, it was not lovers’ talk that passed between them.  “Mr. Moore, won’t you have the rest of this soda-water?” or, “Yes, one of those brown biscuits, thank you,” or, “Please, Mr. Moore, will you crush those bits of paper together and bury them in a hole?  Nothing is so horrid as to come upon traces of a pic-nic on a hillside or along a river.”  Already those long days of constant companionship seemed to be becoming remote.  It was the black night-journey between Inverness and Perth that had severed that shining time from the dull and commonplace hours he had now entered upon.  He looked out of the window as the train thundered along—­Preston—­Wigan—­Warrington—­everywhere squalor, hurry, and noise, with a smoke-laden sky lowering over the sad and dismal country, different, indeed, from that other world he knew of, with its crimson slopes of heather, its laughing waters, its lonely solitudes in their noonday hush, the fair azure of the heavens becoming paler and paler towards the horizon until it touched the distant peaks and shoulders of Assynt.  “Muss aus dem Thal jetzt scheiden, wo alles Lust und Klang;” but at least the memory of it would remain with him—­a gracious possession.