At Cairneyhill

bees hanging to a comb. there was a wait of five minutes for a fussy little old lady who positively refused to sit anywhere but on the box seat, although it already had two occupants besides the driver, and a little farther on a man in funeral array of blacks waited at his garden gate with a huge wreath in his hand. A passenger took charge of the wreath, the man stood on the step, and off we went again.

It is a pretty road, well wooded. The first place we pass through is Cairneyhill, with its long street of weavers' cottages, many of them now untenanted, and a little farther on we strike the Firth at Torryburn, a straggling little village with a crooked street. In an old volume I came across the following epitaph which was culled from Torryburn churchyard, and is worth repeating

"In this churchyard lies Eppie Coutts
Either here or here aboots.

But where it is there's nane can tell
Till Eppie rise and tell hersel'."

The road now skirts the shore, the tide is out, and a long stretch of mud lies between

us and Preston Island, with its ruined houses which, in some lights, assume the romantic appearance of an old castle; a little farther on is Low Valleyfield and then the quiet old town of Culross, the favourite haunt of artists.

As the motor drives into the open square by the old town hall, we cause a ripple in the calm, like a stone thrown into a pool, but as the passengers disperse, stillness settles down again.

Above the town the ground rises in a cliff of green trees, and under this nestle the houses sheltered from north and east winds and open to all the warmth of the western sun. On the slope behind are gardens, and right above, higher than the chimney pots, runs a little walk in the shade of the trees.

Between the grey garden walls are narrow paths up the hill. The one we have chosen is only a couple of feet wide. The lower part is a narrow footpath, trodden bare in the centre, with a thick edging of grass and nettle, and at the steep part of the slope begins a flight of steps, which once ran unbroken to the top. But now the grass has forced its has forced its way between

the stones, which are pushed to one side and the other and lie broken and moss-covered. There are many gaps and the stones are loose, and one must walk warily. From this narrow lane way you emerge on the Terrace, a well made pathway between two stone walls. That in front is low, forming a parapet about four feet high, just the height to stand and lean on, and look down over the gardens and the houses below. The wall at the back is higher, and above it rises the wood. In the terrace itself, trees at intervals give a shelter from the sun, if such were needed, but even on this warm July day a cool breeze from off the Firth pleasantly tempers the heat.

The bell-like roof of the old Tolbooth, grey stone and blue-grey slate, stands out dark against the waters, which to-day are a delicate metallic grey, brighter than lead, yet richer than silver, and with innumerable diamond sparkles where the sun glints on the ripples. Beyond, Bo'ness lies smoking against a background of green fields and dim blue woodland. In the foreground we have the long irregular rows of red-tiled roofs, the sunlit sides flaring

an orange red, the shaded ones glowing with deeper shades of ruby and crimson. Nearer still and below us, the good grey earth is dotted with young cabbages just transplanted, rows of potatoes, strawberry beds, and here and there a clothes line with its fluttering patches of colour. Down a few steps and round a corner, and we are at the back of the old Palace, as it is called. Here the garden is more pretentious, rising in terraces, while a row of yew trees at the back give a touch of stateliness. The house has fallen upon evil days and is now used by a coaching establishment, but the irises in the garden still afford a blaze of royal colour, the borders of boxwood are thick and luxuriant, and peonies, lilies, and roses, all good old-fashioned flowers, abound.

Though the railway runs along the waterside, and the towers of the Forth Bridge are visible in the distance, and they are breaking up iron ships at Bo'ness across the water, yet these things do not disturb the old-world atmosphere of the place. For that matter the railway seems asleep too, trains are few and far between and travel slowly; even the motor