"Dear me, what a conflagration!" we all exclaimed. We had not gone very far before we saw another, and then, on the opposite side of the car, another still.
"Why, it seems to me the country is all on fire."
"I should think," said Mr. S., "if it was in old times, that there had been a raid from the Highlands, and set all the houses on fire."
"Or they might be beacons," suggested C.
To this some one answered out of the Lay of the Last Minstrel,—
"Sweet Teviot, by thy silver tide
The glaring bale-fires blaze no more."
As we drew near to Glasgow these illuminations increased, till the whole air was red with the glare of them.
"What can they be?"
"Dear me," said Mr. S., in a tone of sudden recollection, "it's the iron works! Don't you know Glasgow is celebrated for its iron works?"