“As I understand it,” said Lionel, with a becoming diffidence, “it was some suggestion of Captain Waveney’s.  He said the Free Church ministers were particular friends of the crofters—­and of course the good-will of the crofters is of importance to a shooting-tenant—­”

“The good-will of the crofters!” the bewigged old nobleman broke in, impatiently.  “Are you aware, sir, that the Strathaivron Branch of the Land League met last week and passed a resolution declaring salmon to be ground-game?  What are you to do with people like that?  How are you to reason with them?  What is the use of pacifying them?  They are in the hands of violent and malevolent revolutionaries—­it is war they want—­it is 1789 they want—­it is plunder and robbery and confiscation they want—­and the right of every man to live idle at the cost of the state!  Why, God bless my soul! the idea that you are to try to pacify these ignorant savages—­”

But here Lionel, who began to fancy that he had discovered another Octavius Quirk, was afforded relief; for the minister himself appeared; and at the very sight of him Lord Fareborough indignantly quitted the room.  The minister, who was a rather irascible-looking little man with a weather-reddened face and rusty whiskers, inquired of Lionel whether it was possible to procure a glass of milk; but when Lionel rang the bell and had some brought for him, the minister observed that milk by itself was a dangerous thing in the morning; whereupon the butler had to be sent for, who produced the spirit-decanter; and then, and finally, the minister, boldly discarding the milk altogether, poured out for himself a good solid dram, and drank it off with much evident satisfaction.

Now the ladies began to make their appearance, some of them going along to the gun-room to hear what the head keeper had to say, others of them trooping out by the front door to guess at the weather.  Among the latter was Miss Honnor Cunyngham; and Lionel, who had followed her, went up to her.

“A beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he said.

“I’m afraid it’s too beautiful,” said she, in reply.  “Look up there.”

And she was right.  This was far too picturesque and vivid a morning to portend well for a shooting-day.  Down at the farther end of the strath, the skies were banked up with dark and heavy clouds; the lake-like sweep of the river was of a sombre and livid blue; and between the indigo stream and the purple skies, a long neck of land, catching the sunlight, burned the most brilliant gold.  And even as they stood and looked, a faint gray veil gradually interposed between them and the distant landscape; a rainbow slowly formed, spanning the broad valley; and then behind the fairy curtain of the shower they could see the yellow river-banks, and the birchwoods, and the farther-stretching hills all vaguely and spectrally shining in the sun.

“But this is a very peculiar glen,” said she.  “It often threatens like that when it means nothing.  You may get a perfectly dry, still day after all.  And, Mr. Moore, may I ask you if what you said about your shooting yesterday afternoon was entirely true or only a bit of modesty?”