On the side where the
friends were walking, the ground was more broken, rising in places
into small hills, many of them wooded. Half a mile away was one of
a conical shape, on whose top towered a castle. Old and gray and
sullen, it lifted itself from the foliage around it like a great
rock from a summer sea, and stood out against the clear blue sky of
the June morning. The hill was covered with wood, mostly rather
young, but at the bottom were some ancient firs and beeches. At the
top, round the base of the castle, the trees were chiefly delicate
birches with moonlight skin, and feathery larches not thriving over
well.
"What ca' they yon castel?" questioned Donal. "It maun be a place o'
some importance!"
"They maistly ca' 't jist the castel," answered the cobbler. "Its
auld name 's Graham's Grip. It's lord Morven's place, an' they ca'
't Castel Graham: the faimily-name 's Graham, ye ken. They ca,
themsel's Graeme-Graham--jist twa w'ys o' spellin' the name putten
thegither. The last lord, no upo' the main brainch, they tell me,
spelled his name wi' the diphthong, an' wasna willin' to gie't up
a'thegither--sae tuik the twa o' them. You 's whaur yoong Eppy 's
at service.--An' that min's me, sir, ye haena tellt me yet what kin'
o' a place ye wad hae yersel.' It's no 'at a puir body like me can
help, but it's aye weel to lat fowk ken what ye're efter.
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