Early in the morning we sailed with the Dolphin, to accompany her as far as the Island of Rona, to the north of Raasay, where we looked into a curious little loch, at the head of which is a farm-house.  The owner-- as is the case with most people residing on that shore--had been a seafaring man.  He had gone away to Skye, and was expected back by his loving wife, when a furious gale arose.  To light him on his way, she had been accustomed to place a large lamp in the window of the cottage, which looked down on the loch.  On that night she trimmed it with double care.  In vain, however, she sat and watched; hour after hour passed by as she waited, expecting to hear her husband's cheerful voice as he came on shore, calling out to her amid the howling storm; but in vain she watched.  Day dawned, and the little vessel had not reached her accustomed moorings.  The next night her lamp was lighted as usual. When the storm abated, tidings came that portions of a wrecked vessel had been picked up on the shore; but she hoped against hope that it might not be her husband's craft.  Still, though he came not, she lighted the lamp.  Night after night, and month after month, that bright light streamed forth from the solitary cottage on the beach; and many a storm-tossed vessel owed its safety to that unpretending beacon.  At length the Scottish Commissioners of Lighthouses heard of this volunteer lighthouse.  An annual sum of money was voted for its support, and the widow received a lamp with reflectors, with a supply of oil to keep her lamp burning.  The commissioners paid her and her family a visit; and, though years have passed, that lamp burns as brightly as ever.