CHAPTER XXII.

MIST ON THE MOUNTAIN.

November, with its chilly winds, finds Roland a traveller in Scotland. He has the directions given by his mother, and has to cross a mountain region in a stage, ere he reaches his native village. It is a lonely journey, for he is the only passenger; and a heavy Scotch mist is rapidly falling over the dreary landscape; distant mountains are first enveloped, then trees and bushes, and last even the scattered houses along the road-side, until all is darkness and gloom.

He had heard of a Scotch mist, but could never have conceived of anything so murky, so dense, and yet behind it all was the bright and cheering sun. So is the experience of human life, often enveloped in heavy clouds, shrouded in darkness; yet beyond, God our Father sits guiding the changes of our destiny.

Evening approached—no human beings could be seen; and nothing disturbed the solitude, save the muffled lowing of the cattle through the heavy atmosphere, the bleating of sheep, and the faint tinkling of the bells which they wear to direct their guides.

No signs betokened their approach to human habitations; as yet no beacon pointed to his native village, and there may be no voice of kindred to welcome him to his mother's home. So impenetrable was the darkness, that the stage stopped for the night. It was a gloomy period in Roland's young life—but never did the brave spirit forget his motto; "Looking aloft!" through mist, through clouds and darkness, he slept the blessed rest of perfect trust. He woke in the morning to see the first bright rays of the rising sun beaming through his shutters; opening them, Roland looked out upon a scene of surpassing grandeur; lofty mountains in the distance, range after range, over which the sun was rising in all his majesty, thick heavy woodland wearing the dusky hues of autumn, flocks of sheep under the care of their guides, here and there the shepherds' huts, and over all, the bright sunlight flooding the landscape with his glory, and tinging the clouds of mist with prismatic hues, as they rolled away, and mingled with the higher atmosphere, leaving the landscape all revealed.

Roland was cheered by the sight. "So may it be at last with my destiny," thought the youth; "if I seek God's glory in all, he will fulfil his promises." After a hearty breakfast of hot bannocks and milk, Roland resumed his journey, and referred to the driver for information concerning the rest of his journey.

"How far are we from Glendale, driver?"

"Aboot tharty mile or mair, I ken."

"Do you know the family of the Gordons?"

"Do ye mean the family o' the auld minister, David Gordon?"

"The same," was Roland's reply.

"The auld minister bae gane to his rest these mony years; I dinna ken how lang syne."

"His son and daughter?" continued Roland.

"Baith gane hame."

Roland bowed his head, for now he felt his desolation.

"Is there no one there, driver, who can give me any information concerning them?"

"Yes, there is the auld servant, Jennie Scott; she lives near by the auld manse."

In a few hours, Roland found himself approaching his native village; he had some remembrance of these familiar scenes; the lake where he had rowed in his childhood with Uncle Alick, the manse with its grove of old trees, and the kirk not far off, he found were realities that had their picture hung up in the halls of memory.

Stopping at the village-inn he sought out the old servant. Knocking at the cottage door, a face somewhat familiar presented itself. "Is this Jennie Scott?" asked Roland.

"It is so, please your honor; will ye sit doon, sir, in my humble cottage?"

"Do you remember Roland Bruce, the little son of Mary Gordon, Jennie?"

"Do I remember the bairn that I nursed so lang in these auld arms? Can I e'er forget the bonny chiel? Mine were the first arms that held him after he breathed the breath o' life—can ye tell me ony thing aboot the lad?"

"He stands before you, Jennie," and Roland seized the hand of his old nurse, while she threw herself upon his bosom, and wept for joy.

"It canna' be,—he was sic a wee bairn when I saw him last, and now sic a braw an' winsome mon. Bless the Lord! O, my soul, for a' his guidness to his auld servant."

Roland then told the old woman something of his history, and what had brought him to Scotland.

"Ye've came too late, my son; the auld minister has been dead these ten years. O, he greeted sair for ye, my bairn. Miss Ellen died in twa years after that, and Mr. Alick twa years ago; ye've nae mother's kin in Scotland, that I ken, Roland."

"And none in America, my old friend, my mother and sister both sleep in Jesus, and I am alone in the wide world; but then, God is my Father—can I visit the old manse, Jennie?"

"Yes, my bairn, I keep the key, for I gang owre there every few weeks to luik after the furniture, and to keep it a' clean."

"How is it, Jennie, that it is not inhabited?"

"Why, Mr. Alick ordered, when he died, that it sud be kept closed for three years, and if nane came to claim it then, that it might be sold, for it belanged to the auld minister, Roland, and Mr. Alick hoped that the right heir might come some day."

Jennie led the way to the old homestead, and as they advanced, tears would force themselves into Roland's eyes, as he recognized the familiar porch, and one old tree, where he had so often played. She opened the shutters, and let in the light of day. All was in a state of perfect neatness and order.

The family-parlor was so comfortable, from which a glass door opened into the minister's study.

How sacred it appeared! The study-table where he had prepared so many sermons for his flock—the old arm-chair where he had sat—the couch where he had reclined when weary—the book-case, with its shelves of devotional books, and the best authors of the Scottish Church; and on the study-table, his old Bible marked from the Old to the New Testament by his own venerable hands. In a table-drawer, lay his spectacles, the inkstand that he used, and even the pen with which he wrote.

"Look here, Roland! at this carpet," said Jennie, as she pointed to the spot so worn by the old man's knees, for he always knelt in one particular place. "This is a sacred room, Roland, an' I hae always been sae happy to ken that nae stranger has e'er come in here amang the auld minister's books."

From the study, they passed into his mother's room.

There stood the cradle, and the rocking-chair, in which she had sat, to nurse her babes.

Jennie took up her apron to wipe her old eyes as she said,—

"How mony times hae I seen Mary Gordon, when she thought naebody saw her, weep owre the cradle, as she rocked her babes to sleep; but she was a guid woman, Roland, an' a true an' faithful wife. Is yer father living, my son?"

"That is a hard question to answer, Jennie; it has always been said that he was lost at sea, but strange things have happened to make me sometimes think he may yet be alive."

"He was aye a sad an' gloomy mon, Roland; I sud na wonder if he were crazed at last."

"Can you tell me anything about Malcolm Graham, Jennie? I must see him soon."

"He lives aboot twenty miles frae here, up on the side o' the mountain; he is called far an' nigh 'guid Uncle Malcolm;' he only lives to do guid, Roland; he has charge o' a' your property, an' can tell ye a' that ye need."

The place where they stood was full of sad memories, and the longer he remained, the more familiar he became.

"Why here, Jennie, is the very wheel-barrow that Uncle Alick brought me all the way from Edinburgh; many a time have I filled it with pebbles, and emptied them into the lake," and Roland picked up the toy, and regarded it tenderly, even as an old friend.

"Let us go now, Jennie, for I must make some preparations to visit Uncle Malcolm."

"Ye maun gang amang some o' your grandfather's people first, Roland; they wud be sair grieved if ye gang awa' without seeing them."

"I will stay over the Sabbath, Jennie, if you can keep me at your little cottage, for I want to go to the old kirk, where my mother worshipped God."

The weeds in the little garden around the house, and the neglected look of the grounds, spoke volumes to Roland's heart of the dear ones who had vanished from the old manse, and of the busy hands now silent in the grave.

"What is that, Jennie?" said Roland, as he observed a little mound under an old tree, with a piece of board at the head.

"Read the words, Roland, an' ye'll see what lies buried there."

"Here lies old Shep, the faithful dog; for twelve years he served his master."

"I remember him, Jennie; many a time has he carried me on his back."

"This auld place is fu' o' death, Roland, but it is just as fu' o' hope; for a' wha hae gane before, hae died the death o' the righteous; an' they a' sleep in the Lord."

Roland spent the days between this and the Sabbath in rambling about, and in company with old Jennie visiting his grandfather's parishioners. They all expressed great joy on seeing the young man, and observed universally the likeness to his father.

"But he has nane o' the gloom," said the old sexton; "he has the same black hair an' dark e'en, but the look is a' upward an' bright, as if he walked wi' his grandfather's God."

On the Sabbath day, in company with old Jennie Scott, he walked up the aisle of the old kirk. She was a proud woman on that day—for was not she walking wi' her minister's grandson? the handsomest, the noblest, an' the best o' a' the young men around Glencoe?

He sat in his mother's seat, and used the old book which contained her name. On the fly-leaf was written—

"Malcolm Graham, sailed on the first day of March, 1807. May God be with him to bless and keep him."

On another leaf was written—"Mary Gordon, married to Stephen Bruce, Oct. 1st, 1811. May God bless the union with peace."

Roland's tears dropped over these silent memorials, but it was a blessed thought that all the cares and trials of that beloved mother were over forever; and as he now joined in the psalms which she had often sung in the pew of her own kirk, so he hoped in the church triumphant to sing with her and Effie the song of Moses and the Lamb.

After the service, he visited the graves of his kindred, and with true delicacy, none of the plain Scotch people intruded upon his solitude, as he stood in silence around the sacred spot. "What a blessing to have godly ancestors!" thought Roland; "followed all my life by earnest prayer, God has shielded and blessed me thus far with the knowledge of himself as my reconciled Father in Christ Jesus."

Many were the warm greetings which met him at the church gate; and many the blessings that were showered upon him by the people who loved the memory of their dear old minister.

"I must go, Jennie," said Roland, when Monday morning came. "I am anxious to find Uncle Malcolm."

"Ye will see me again before ye return to America?"

"O, yes, Jennie; I will be sure to return."

It was a cold, bleak morning, when he started.

"I think we are going to hae a snow-storm, Roland; had ye na better wait a day or twa?"

"I think not, Jennie; I can get along very well;" and he would not hear of farther delay.

"I ken the signs around these dark mountains, Roland; we shall hae a heavy fa' o' snaw before nicht—the stage will only tak' ye within three miles o' Malcolm's house, an' it will be a dark journey on foot in a snaw-storm."

"God is with me, Jennie; I must go."

"Fare ye weel! my bairn, till we meet again," said the old woman.

Taking up his carpet-bag, and seeing his trunk carefully deposited, he started on his journey.

It was a raw, chilly morning; he had provided himself with a tartan plaid, and wrapping himself in its heavy folds, he took his seat in the stage. The wind sighed heavily as though a storm was really brewing.

"We shall hae to plew through heavy drifts before we reach the end o' our journey," said the driver.

As they ascended the road, the animals were well aware of what was coming; and the wild mountain birds screamed around them with foreboding warnings.

In a short time, the snow commenced falling; at first, skurrying in little gusts of driving wind, then more and more thickly, until they were in the midst of a heavy mountain storm.

The atmosphere was filled with the flakes, which, driven by fierce winds, drifted on the side of the road.

More and more difficult became the travelling; the poor jaded horses could scarcely drag the vehicle through the piles of snow.

Stopping for dinner at a road-side inn, the landlord looked out upon the storm with a serious countenance.

"It is a pity, young mon, that ye cam' oot in sic a storm; it will be fearfu' before nightfa'; perhaps ye had better bide wi' us until the mornin' breaks."

"No, I must push on;" for Roland was not one to be daunted by difficulties.

"Hae ye ever been oot in a Scotch snaw-storm on the mountains, my lad? Ye dinna' ken what ye hae to encounter."

"I have not," was the reply; "but I shall only have three miles to walk, and that will be easier, I think, than riding."

"Walk in sic a storm! I am sorry for the mon that tries it this dark night."

The stage started; the storm increased; it was a weary drag through the piled up snow: and yet it was still falling thicker, faster, while the wind was raging; frequently, the horses had to pause; and it was late, indeed quite night, when they halted at the stopping place.

The driver directed Roland how to find the road to Graham Hall; indeed, to be sure that he had the right start, he walked with him some distance, until he was fairly on the track.

It was up a by-road that he was now walking. He was directed to go straight-forward until he came to a gate, that led directly to Malcolm's house, about one mile distant. It was a weary journey, more difficult than he had imagined; the beating of the snow in his face, and the tremendous power of the wind against which he was struggling, frequently overpowered him; and he had to stand still with his back to the storm, to recover himself for fresh efforts; his feet were growing benumbed, his mouth stiffened, and the feeling of weariness almost compelling him to lie down to sleep, was creeping slowly over him. Still he persevered, and roused all his energies to shake off the lethargy.

In his carpet-bag, he remembered a small flask of wine which Jennie had thoughtfully placed there; taking a mouthful, he felt revived. But he certainly ought to be near the gate; he had walked so long, and yet he could find none. He must be lost—what was now to be done? He stood silent for a minute, prayed for guidance, strained eyes and ears for some direction. At last, he heard the bark of a dog; he did not seem very far off. Roland whistled, and advancing a few steps farther, he thought he saw a light, very dim in the midst of the falling snow, but still there was really a faint glimmer; he tried to follow it, and as he advanced, it became brighter; then he felt that he was in the right path to a human habitation. He hallooed, as loud as his failing strength would allow, several times; the light moved, another light was visible; it was certainly approaching; in a minute, a dog bounded through the drifts, and barked loud and long. "Dinna' be alarmed," cried a man's voice, "he is only telling us that he has found ye." In another second a man appeared with a lantern.

"Ye hae been oot in a sair storm, my friend; follow me, an' I will bring ye to a safe harbor."

"I am searching for Malcolm Graham," was the reply.

"Hoot awa', mon! ye are far oot o' the way; it is a guid thing that I found ye in time."

Taking Roland by the arm, he led him forward through the drifts, to the door of his humble cottage, where his good wife stood waiting her husband's return.

"Throw me my tartan, wife," cried the man; "here is a lost traveller, an' I am ganging to guide him to Graham Hall; gi' the dogs the lanterns; come, Jack, come, Joan," continued the man, as he fastened the small lanterns with reflectors, around the dogs' necks. "We are safe enow, sir, for these tykes ken every turn o' these mountain roads."

They bounded off with a cheery bark, and threading their way skilfully by the side of the drifts, our travellers followed the lights with quickened pace.

Bright lights beaming from several windows suddenly burst upon them. "We are at Graham Hall, sir," said the shepherd; and hastily stepping up on the front piazza, he rapped loud with the iron lion's head that served for knocker at the great hall door. The master presented himself. "Why, Sandy Armstrong, what brought ye oot in sic a night as this?"

"I hae found a lost traveller searchin' for Graham Hall, sir; an' I hae brought him safely to ye; but he is sairly worn oot."

"Come in, sir, and we shall soon see what the warm fires and blankets o' Graham Hall can do for ye, my young friend."

"Guid night, sir," said Sandy, and Roland thanked the kind man for his safe escort.

"Won't ye tak' some warm negus, Sandys?" said the master.

"Thank ye kindly, sir, but I maun hasten back; the snow is falling still heavily."

Roland stood for one minute, in the midst of a large hall, while the master removed his tartan, knocked the snow off his boots, and hung his cap upon the pegs, where the master's hunting-dress, his powder-horn, and game-bag, indicated his love for mountain sports. A set of antlers mounted the hall-door, and some hunting pictures adorned the wall.

"Ye are weak and sick, sir," was the kind salutation; "tak' my arm," and Malcolm Graham led Roland into a bright family room, where a large wood fire blazed upon the hearth of a Franklin stove—the rich, dark carpet, the heavy oak furniture, old fashioned chairs, and pictures of Highland scenery gave an air of charming comfort to the apartment, which was truly grateful to the sick and jaded traveller.

"Lie down, sir, on the couch;" and Malcolm beat up the soft chintz cushions with the tenderness of a woman, as he laid Roland down on the comfortable lounge. Perceiving that Roland made several attempts to speak, the master continued,

"Dinna talk, there is plenty o' time for that; I will be back in a minute," and speedily returning, he sat down by the side of the young man, watching his motions.

"Here, brother, is the negus," said a lady, opening the door slightly; and Malcolm handed it to Roland. The warm drink speedily restored vitality to his frame; then taking off his boots, his kind host rubbed his feet briskly, dropping cheering words as he performed the service. By this time, Roland was sufficiently recovered to look around him; and first he glanced at the tall and noble-looking man that waited upon him. The dark gray eyes expressed a world of feeling, and the mouth, though firm, was loving as a woman's. 'Tis true that the fine head was partially bald, and the hair that remained was silvered with marks of time, but there was that about Malcolm Graham that won Roland's heart at once.

"Do you know, sir, whom you are befriending?" was Roland's first remark.

"No, sir, a' that I ken is that ye are a stranger, an' I took ye in."

"It is fitting that you should know—my name is Roland Bruce, sir."

Malcolm's color changed, as, seizing the young man's hand, he exclaimed: "Mary Gordon's son! I thank thee, O, my Father!" and Malcolm hid his face in his handkerchief to conceal the storm of mixed emotions which swept over his countenance, and shook his frame.

"I came from America to search for my relations; but I find none of my mother's kindred left. I am truly alone in the wide world; she bade me search for you also."

"Not alone, Roland; Mary's son is my especial care, and my heart opens wide to receive ye; come to my arms, my son, and let me press my lips upon yer young brow."

For that warm embrace, the friendship of future years was sealed, and the two were no more strangers.

Malcolm opened the door and called, "Annie, I hae some one to introduce to ye," and his sister, Mrs. Lindsay, entered the room.

"This is Mary Gordon's son, Annie; ye will luve him for my sake."

The lady greeted him warmly. "Ye are welcome to our fireside, Roland; but ye maun be very hungry;" and the good lady hastened away, to order a warm supper for the weary guest.

The door opened softly, and a young face peeped shyly in.

"Come in, Annot," said her uncle; and a little fairy of fifteen, with a profusion of light, curly hair, and a dancing step, advanced shyly to the couch.

"Shake hands wi' Mr. Bruce, Annot; he has come to stay wi' us, my luve; he is the chiel o' a vera dear friend of Uncle Malcolm."

"I am glad to see ye, sir; I luve ilka body that Uncle Malcolm loves."

Another applicant for introduction, in the form of a large family dog that lay ensconced on a rug by the fire, had long been asserting his claims to notice, by repeatedly putting up his shaggy paw, and looking up in his master's face, for his share in the ceremonies.

"I maun na' forget auld Lion, Roland; come here, auld fellow!" and the dog, wagging his tail, put up his rough paw to salute Roland; at the same time, expressing his satisfaction by a low growl, that he meant to be musical—at any rate, it expressed good-will.

Soon a neat-looking Highland girl entered, and spreading the table, she placed upon it sundry grateful viands.

"Hannah!" said Mrs. Lindsay, "tell Dugald to kindle a fire in the minister's room."

"And now, Roland, see if ye can tak' some supper," said the master, as he led his young friend to the table.

He ate sparingly of the profusion spread around him, for his appetite had not yet returned, but the feeling of perfect comfort was such a rest, that it was refreshment enough for Roland, for some hours at least.

"We shall not keep ye late to-night, Roland; ye need rest, and, to-morrow, ye shall tell me a' your story."

A bell summoned the family for evening worship; two or three Highland men and women came in from the kitchen, and took their seats reverently with the family. Annot opened the piano, Malcolm read a chapter in the Bible, with some simple comments; Annot played a beautiful Psalm, in which all joined heartily; and the master concluded the exercises by a solemn, earnest prayer, in which Roland was most affectionately remembered.

Taking a light, he said, "Come, Roland, I will tak' ye to yer room;" and Malcolm led the way to a bright cheerful chamber, where a glowing fire blazed upon the hearth, for the master was a great advocate of wood fires.

A warm feather bed, plenty of blankets, with chintz curtains, an easy rocking-chair, and writing-table, made up a whole of home comforts, such as Roland had never, in all his life, enjoyed before.

Fixing the lamp with old bachelor exactness several times before it suited him, Malcolm left the room, saying,

"Is there onything that ye want, Roland? dinna be afraid to ask."

"Nothing, sir; I am perfectly comfortable; good-night, sir."

"Guid-night;" and Malcolm left him to the quiet of his thoughts. Having allowed him time for his devotions, and preparations for repose, Malcolm entered once more.

"Here is a bowl o' negus, my son, it will na' harm ye after sic a freezing as ye hae had;" and Malcolm insisted on his drinking down the whole.

"Now, guid-night, Roland;" and Malcolm laid his hand in blessing upon the young head, as he continued,

"God bless ye, and gi' ye refreshing sleep."

He lay awake some time, for Roland's emotions were of that delicious character which none can realize but those who have been thus suddenly transported from a scene of danger and suffering to one of perfect rest and safety. The howling of the wind without, and the beating of the snowdrifts against the window-panes, were strongly contrasted with the light of the glowing fire illumining some Scripture pictures on the wall, the warm, soft bed, and the sweet atmosphere of Christian love by which he was surrounded. Truly, "the Lord giveth his beloved sleep!" and such a sleep was Roland's.

"We did na' wake ye early, Roland;" said his friend, who came at last to see if he was stirring, "for we kenned that ye needed rest; how do ye fare this morning?"

"Perfectly well and happy," was the answer.

"Well, I will leave ye now; as soon as ye are ready, come down to the breakfast-room."

Roland poured out his heart in earnest, grateful prayer, dressed himself, and appeared before the family quite another man.

A smoking breakfast of good, hot coffee, venison, beef-steak, hot bannocks, muffins, and boiled eggs awaited him; and, on this occasion, he did ample justice to the tempting viands.

"We have delayed worship, this morning, on your account, Roland;" and immediately after breakfast, the same company again assembled, the same sweet music, Scripture reading, and fervent prayer of the night before.

"Come, look out upon the landscape, Roland," said the master, as he led the young man into the family parlor, and turned aside the heavy curtains that he might see the picture without.

The sun was shining in all his glory upon the landscape—mountains of snow were piled up everywhere, glistening in the sunbeams, which were reflected in prismatic colors in the icicles pendant from the branches of the trees. Such a scene Roland had never before witnessed, and, to his temperament, it was full of exhilaration.

"Now, my son, I am ready for your story;" and Malcolm led the way to his own private room, directing that he should not be disturbed that morning.

It was a cozy little apartment, with secretary, writing-table, book-cases well filled, comfortable chairs, a cushioned lounge, and a bright wood fire.

A bust of Sir Walter occupied one niche, and Burns another. A picture of Abbotsford, another of Melrose Abbey, and one of Burns' Highland Mary, adorned the walls; and a flute, with piles of music, lay upon a stand in the corner of the room. Horns of deer branched over the windows, and several figures of Scottish knights, in bronze, adorned the mantel-piece. Everywhere, the house was furnished with the quiet comforts, and even elegancies, of a Scotch gentleman.

Lion was here, of course; for at all times, he was allowed free access to Malcolm's apartments, and no more faithful friend ever followed the fortunes of a master, than good old Lion.

CHAPTER XXIII.

GRAHAM HALL.

It was a morning fraught with deep and painful memories, for as Roland related the story of his mother's trials, and his own struggles with poverty and suffering, Malcolm's manly heart was stirred within him; and when he read the manuscript which Mrs. Bruce had left, floods of memory overpowered him for one moment, for it took him back so painfully to the days of his youth.

"But she is at rest noo, Roland; there ne'er was a purer, holier heart in the form o' woman, than that which beat in the bosom o' Mary Gordon. I should hae made her happy, Roland, but God willed it otherwise, an' I am content; but how is it that she could hae suffered so much, with sic friends in Scotland? Did she na write home?"

"She did, frequently, Uncle Malcolm; for the first year we received answers; then we were surrounded by mystery; we could not imagine how it was, but at last, my mother thought that death must have removed her relatives, and she ceased to write."

Malcolm opened a small drawer that was kept carefully locked, and lifting an old pocket-book, took out a lock of golden hair, and a piece of faded blue ribbon.

"That is to be buried with me in my grave, Roland; it is a' that is left to me, on earth, o' Mary Gordon; but I believe that we shall meet in Heaven; for, Roland, we were made for each other, and shall hold communion yet; here is a perfect likeness o' your mother, when she was sweet Mary Gordon;" and Roland gazed upon the picture with feelings of loving reverence.

It was a bright young face, with deep blue eyes, and a profusion of light curly hair; innocence marked its general expression, but in the eyes there was a look of high and holy inspiration, such as she never lost.

"If ye should outlive me, Roland, that is yours; your name shall be placed upon the back; would that I could hae kenned my boy in the days o' his adversity; and now I hae ane request to make, and it is this; ca' me always Uncle Malcolm; would that I were mair to ye."

"That will be very easy, dear Uncle Malcolm; for I feel as if I had indeed found not only a friend, but a relative; but it is better that I had not known you before; the very discipline of my life has called out qualities which prosperity could never have fostered."

"That talisman, Roland, has been your a', it has been the making o' Mary Gordon's son. 'Looking aloft!' O, what blessedness in those holy, strengthening words! It shall be placed upon her miniature, Roland."

When Roland related the early struggles of his life in New York, the trials at college, the weariness of hope deferred, his "News-Boys' Home," Malcolm sat with head bowed upon his hands, and when he had finished his recital, he clasped Roland in his arms, and said,—

"Ye are indeed the chiel o' Providence; be my son, Roland, for I love ye as my ain."

But little was said concerning his early friend, Madeline, but even the few passing words spoke volumes to Malcolm Graham.

Bowing down together before the mercy-seat, Malcolm poured out his soul in earnest prayer for the youth kneeling by his side, and Roland took up the language of supplication and praise, and from a full heart poured out his gratitude. Arm in arm they left the study, and the servants wondered what the master had found in the lost traveller of the night before.

"I have some inquiries to make about Aunt Douglass, for I am strongly inclined to believe that my father still lives; I think perhaps that she may know something of him."

A painful expression passed over Malcolm's face, as he replied,—

"I can direct ye, Roland, but dinna gae yet; stay wi' me a few days; I want to tell ye aboot a' my plans, and as soon as the travelling will allow us, I hae mickle to show ye o' Highland life."

The next day brought Roland acquainted with Uncle Malcolm's daily habits. A part of each morning was devoted to Annot's studies, a part to superintending general business, keeping accounts, and a portion to regular systematic reading.

Sometimes Uncle Malcolm indulged in sporting, a part of the amusements of Scotch gentlemen.

Friday evening came, and after supper, the master said,

"Dugald, bring in the books an' get ready for the meeting," and the old servant soon returned with additional seats, and a large number of hymn books.

"We hae a meeting o' my tenants every Friday, Roland; we are vera far frae ony kirk, an' I hae to be minister to them, for they can only attend the quarterly communions."

Soon the people began to assemble; rough Highlanders, with their wives and elder children came flocking in.

Malcolm sat at the head of a long table, and as each one saluted him, it was manifest with what feelings of affectionate reverence good Uncle Malcolm was regarded by his humble people. A chapter from the Bible with some familiar remarks just to the point for his hearers, several beautiful Scotch psalms, in which all joined earnestly, and then a prayer from Malcolm, and another from Roland, closed the evening.

Several remained behind to ask advice; some about their business, their families, their spiritual needs, their cares and sorrows, their disputes and difficulties; and the kind words dropped by the good steward of his Master's goods, testified to the fidelity with which he discharged his holy trust.

Daily did Malcolm and Roland ride around among his humble dependents, and a book for one, a tract for another, some pecuniary help for others, marked all these visits.

"You see, Roland, that I am pretty busy for an old bachelor; I could na' live without employment. Then we hae some pleasant society here, although we live so far apart. When the gentry visit us, it is to stay several days, sometimes weeks at a time, for the latch o' Graham Hall is always up."

On Sabbath afternoon, a company of little ones flocked to the Hall, and Malcolm, Mrs. Lindsay, and Annot were the teachers on these occasions. It was quite a pleasant treat to Roland to aid in the good work.

In the evenings, Annot entertained them with her sweet Scotch songs, and Roland frequently accompanied her with his deep, rich voice, and Uncle Malcolm with his flute.

Malcolm often wondered what he should do when Roland would leave him, for every day he learned to love him, not only for Mary Gordon's, but for his own sake.

"We shall hae to ask for your room to-night, Roland," said Mrs. Lindsay, "for the minister is coming, and he always occupies that room."

"It makes no difference to me, dear Madam; put me anywhere that suits you."

The Rev. Mr. Murray was a fine specimen of a Scotch minister, grave, earnest, faithful; he was always welcome among his humble mountain parishioners, and came quarterly to look after their welfare.

"Are there ony ready for the Lord's supper, Mr. Graham?" inquired the minister.

"I think there are four; they will be here next Sabbath, when ye can examine them."

There was a large gathering at Graham Hall on that holy day, for notice had been given that the minister was coming.

He preached an earnest, faithful sermon, somewhat longer than Roland had been accustomed to, for an hour and a half were given up to that exercise; long prayers, and long psalms made the occasion tedious to one not accustomed to such services, but the people did net complain, although it brought their dinner two hours later than on other days.

In the afternoon, the minister examined several candidates for the Lord's Supper, which was to be administered on the following Sabbath, and paid a just tribute to the fidelity with which they had been instructed by the minister's earnest helper. Mr. Murray stayed all night, and gave some wise spiritual advice to Roland before he took his departure.

"He seems to be a chiel o' God," said Mr. Murray, "and can come to the sacrament, if he wishes, next Sabbath; it must be pleasant to hae sic a guest."

"He is a descendant o' the Gordons, Mr. Murray, and a chiel o' earnest prayer."

"They were aye a godly race, Mr. Graham, an' mony an ancient martyr bears their name."

On the following Sabbath, Malcolm, Roland, Mrs. Lindsay, and Annot started at early down in one carriage, and all the servants in a large, comfortable wagon; the house was closed for the day, for in Scotland these sacrament days occupy the whole Sabbath.

Arrived at the place of concourse, large numbers were seen coming in all directions; carriages, wagons, people on horseback and on foot, hurried to the service, for as it occurred so seldom, it was a great occasion to devout Scotch people.

Owing to the numbers, the services were out of doors; a table was spread under large shady trees, and temporary seats provided for the occasion.

A long sermon was preached, but full of power; long prayers, but full of unction; deep, sonorous, stirring psalms were sung by the great multitude, and Roland thought of the songs of the redeemed in the Revelations, where the hallelujahs were compared to the voice of many waters. The effect was sublime under these old trees; young men and old, mothers, maidens, and little children all joining in the solemn chorus, with the heavens for their canopy, and the green sward for their carpeted aisles.

"'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth,
    And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth,
                A call to prayer!

"Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column,
    Attest the feebleness of mortal hand;
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,
                Which God hath planned!

"To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
    Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply,
Its choir, the winds and waves, its organ thunder,
                Its dome, the sky!"

But here was the voice of God's ambassador, and the presence of the Holy Ghost, and Roland listened and worshipped with solemn awe in nature's grand cathedral.

In the intervals between the services, the people assembled in serious groups under the trees to eat their meals, for all who lived at a distance had come with the intention to spend the Sabbath.

No lightness was manifest among the crowds, for Scotch people are proverbial for their reverence for the Sabbath. The minister mingled occasionally with his people; but none, not even the little children, seemed to forget that it was the holy Sabbath. At the close of the solemn day, Malcolm and his family returned to their mountain home, doubtless benefitted by the exercises of this holy service.

"We have had a pleasant day, Uncle Malcolm," said Roland, "but would it not be better if the services were not quite so long? I observed many old people nodding in the afternoon."

"It would be doubtless better, but the customs of the old Scotch church are very hard to remodel. The good Dr. Chalmers has done much in the way of reform, but it has not reached us yet."

"What a noble witness for the truth is that good man! There is but one such man in our age, Uncle Malcolm; at least but one given to an especial branch of the Christian church."

"Yes, Roland, the Church of England has her Bickersteth; the Baptist, her Robert Hall; the Methodist, her Wesley; and a' seeking one great end, the glory of the Saviour, and the spread of his kingdom. What a blessed day that will be, when these sects shall pass away, and we shall be truly one in Christ, once more the simple primitive Christians of Antioch!"

And thus they fulfilled the blessed command of their Master, talking of the things of his kingdom, until like the disciples on their way to Emmaus their hearts burned within them with emotions of holy love. Where the fountain is full, the streams will gush forth naturally, freely, healthfully.

"It is a fine day, Uncle Malcolm," said Roland, on the following Monday; "can we go to-day to visit the glen where my martyred ancestors lie?"

"I was thinking o' it mysel', Roland; the weather could na' be better, hard roads, and clear sharp air—it is a long ride frae' here, and we will set out early—hae the carriage ready, Dugald, and a basket o' provision; we will gae in aboot an hour."

It was a splendid ride over these mountain roads, winding around in their ascent to heights whence there were vistas charming in their grandeur even at this season; then descending into rural glens where the cottages of the peasantry ever and anon met their view. "There is Castle Kennicott, Roland;" and Malcolm pointed to a miserable range of buildings, so dilapidated that his companion smiled at the name.

"There lives old Sir Peter Kennicott; he is a specimen o' an auld Scottish laird, vera poor, and vera proud; his wife, Lady Catherine, and three daughters, make up his household; they visit us two or three times a year, and living as they do in the seclusion o' their Highland home, ken but little o' the ways o' the rest o' the warld; they are vera amusing wi' their quaint auld-fashioned manners; but Lady Catherine is a guid woman, and much esteemed."

Beguiling the way with pleasant chat, in a few hours they reached the spot they sought for. Dismounting, they stood around the lowly grave—the same ruined chimney, the same grand old trees, the same dark and sombre glen, where no human habitation was visible, recalled the picture so deeply engraved upon the memory of Roland.

"We stood just here, Uncle Malcolm," (and Roland almost whispered, for he felt in the midst of solemn associations,) "when my mother told me the story of old David Gordon and the sweet Lilian, and I think from that day my childish soul took a great leap in its existence, and I never could forget the thoughts which stirred within me, as I remembered that my ancestors were among the holy band of Christian martyrs."

"It is a great honor, Roland, to be descended frae those who will hereafter be kings and priests unto God."

"What a cruel being man must be that can slay such innocence as slumbers here!"

"And yet it is frae oot sic dreadful scenes o' bluidshed that great principles to bless our race arise; the struggles between right and wrong are often ushered in by the gibbet, the stake, or the battle-axe."

"O, what a happy time that will be, Uncle Malcolm, when the nations shall learn war no more! when man shall love his brother man."

"It is coming, Roland; sure as God's word is true, sic a day will dawn upon the earth."

Hours were spent around the humble grave, for both felt the inspiration of the scene.

"I hae something mair to show ye, Roland; here is ane o' the caves where our fathers used to hide in those dismal days; and mony a time in the midst o' baptismal or sacrament seasons in these lonely glens, at the sound o' the tramp o' Claverhouse and his troopers, would they hae to fly to these damp and gloomy shelters."

"How solemn must have been the worship of these days, Uncle Malcolm; ever on the borders of eternity, they must always have sounded like funereal hymns in these solitudes!"

"And yet how much we hae read o' their heroic spirit, their brave endurance, and their triumph over death! I can imagine strains o' victory always mingling wi' a martyr's hymn."

When they arrived at home, letters from Edmund awaited Roland; he seemed to be growing tired of travelling alone. Uncle Malcolm, with his accustomed hospitality, immediately wrote a few lines of cordial invitation to Graham Hall.

"Wha' hae we here?" asked Mrs. Lindsay.

Roland looked out, and, lumbering up the road, came a large old-fashioned carriage, with two fat, lazy horses.

"It is Sir Peter," continued the lady; and soon the party stopped at the door.

"How fares it wi' ye a'?" said the old man, as he stepped slowly from the carriage, and warmly shook the master's hand.

Lady Catherine followed, and then the three daughters, with their pets—Miss Juliana, with her cat; Miss Winnie, with a fat lap-dog; and Miss Jacky, with a large parrot, brought to her from abroad by a sailor cousin. Sundry bandboxes, and a trunk, indicated that they meant to stay for some days at least. The three ladies had all passed the hey-day of youth, for the youngest was thirty at least. Miss Juliana, the eldest, having passed two seasons at Edinburgh, was the only one who pretended to the manners of a lady; she still preserved carefully the wardrobe of those youthful days for extra occasions, such as a visit to Graham Hall. On this day, a worn-out travelling dress, made in the fashion of twenty years ago, looked rather antiquated; but the narrow purse of Kennicott Castle made a virtue of necessity.

Sir Peter, clad in the costume of ancient times, with his bob-wig and powdered hair, his small clothes, and silver knee and shoe-buckles, his three-cornered hat, and silver-headed cane, with a coat whose pockets were large enough to hold a change of clothing, presented a most grotesque appearance, and really might have been mistaken for a person rigged out for a dramatic scene. Lady Catherine was equally antique. After the ceremony of introduction, they were escorted to their rooms; and nothing more was seen of them until dinner-time, when their appearance at the table indicated the employment of the morning.

Miss Juliana was arrayed in a youthful dress of light blue silk; and, as the eldest, wore the old family jewels, which certainly were not of the most costly kind. Her hair was dressed in the most youthful style; but artificial rose-buds could not conceal the gray locks, or hide the shrivelled cheeks. She carried a fan, with which she performed certain singular manœuvres, which she considered the very tip of the haut-ton.

Miss Juliana was the oracle of the family; for had she not been in Edinburgh for two seasons? and ought she not to know the fashions of high life?

Miss Winnie was fat and coarse, with high cheek bones, large hands and feet, freckled skin, and red hair; she certainly did not pretend to be the beauty of the family.

Miss Jacky, the "Baby," as they still called her, was considered the "beauty."

A small figure, with a profusion of light flaxy hair, tortured into curling, light complexion, with high color, unmeaning china-blue eyes, and pursed-up little mouth, distinguished her from her sisters.

They were all bent upon Baby's making a great match; therefore, all the finery of the past generation, that remained in the old family chest, was kept especially for her. A heavy crimson brocade for winter, that stood alone, was made up with low neck and short sleeves; and in summer, one light pink taffeta was likewise remodelled. One wreath of roses for her hair, one string of pearls for the neck, with ear-rings to match, one pair of soiled kid gloves for the hands, and one pair of narrow pointed slippers, made up Baby's wardrobe, and this she had worn on her visits to Graham Hall, and Douglass Manor, ever since she was eighteen; and now, alas! Baby was thirty.

She had sung the same songs, danced the same Scotch reels, said the same pretty silly things; charming only to her family, and yet Baby was not married.

Sir Peter had long thought that a seat at the head of the table at Graham Hall, would be the very thing for Baby, but unfortunately, the master did not concur in sentiment.

"Annot, my dear, come sit by me," said the sweet young lady, for she knew that Malcolm dearly loved his little niece. Baby was devoted in her attentions to the child, but it all seemed lost upon Malcolm, who was busily engaged in talking to Sir Peter about the cattle and the sheep during the late snow storm. "I lost ten o' my best sheep, Mr. Graham," remarked the old man.

"I did na lose ane, Sir Peter," was the answer, and Malcolm dropped many hints which might have been useful, if the old man had not been too indolent to profit by them.

The politeness of the household was much taxed by their efforts to entertain their guests; for there were just four subjects of conversation for the four ladies.

Lady Catherine discussed household economy; Miss Juliana, her visit to Edinburgh, twenty years ago, an unfailing subject; Miss Winnie, her pet lap-dog, with all his wonderful tricks; and Baby, "The Children of the Abbey," and the "Sorrows of Werter."

It was in vain that Mrs. Lindsay tried to divert the channel of conversation to better things; back to the old worn-out sayings and doings of their little world they would come.

All the ladies employed themselves in knitting while they talked. Lady Catherine knit stockings for the winter; Miss Juliana mitts innumerable; Miss Winnie, tippets of all sizes; and Baby tidies and mats for parlor and chamber.

Knit! knit! knit! talk! talk! talk! Truly a visit from Kennicott Castle was a trial to Christian patience! And then, the darling pets! Miss Juliana's pet cat fought with the master's noble dog; Miss Winnie's lap-dog tried to tear out the eyes of Annot's little kitten; and Baby's parrot screamed night and day, "Polly wants Baby! Polly wants Baby!" Then Miss Juliana's cat must have sweet milk three times a day, and the most delicate pieces of meat cut up very fine; Miss Winnie's lap-dog must be fed upon cream; and Baby's parrot could open her cage-door, and help herself to whatever she liked upon the table. This was great fun to Baby, but disgusting to others, who could not bear a dirty parrot walking over the dinner-plates. Miss Juliana played two old marches, Miss Winnie two old pieces, and Baby three songs exactly.

They all attended punctually upon the family devotions, and then Malcolm could pray that all who knelt around that altar should set their affections upon things above, and not on the vain and fleeting things of earth; their frivolity pained him, and the good master tried many ways to do them good.

He talked to the ladies about schools for the poor children, and about comforts for their parents.

"Dear me!" said Miss Juliana, "Mr. Graham you would na' expect us to stoop to these wild Highlanders; why! they are na' mair than savages!"

"And sae they will continue, my dear Madam," ("Madam!" Miss Juliana did not like that,) "if you will na' step forward to their help; and in sic a lonesome place, I should think it would be pleasant wark."

"Why, Mr. Graham, it would take twa hunters ilka morn to catch the wild things; on the tops o' the highest hills, down in the deepest glens, hidden amang the steep rocks, we might as well try to tame the wild animals as these rough, outlandish children o' the crags."

"Try, Miss Juliana, gi' them something for the body, and, after awhile, they will come to ye for something for the mind."

Miss Juliana yawned, "It is sae mickle work, Mr. Graham, for a high-born lady; I could na' think of sic a thing."

For two weeks the visitors remained; but no visible progress was made by Baby, and the party turned their faces homeward.

"Ye will return our visit soon, Mr. Graham; bring yer young friend wi' ye; we canna promise mickle at Kennicott, but we will mak' ye welcome."

"Thank ye, Sir Peter, when we hae leisure, we will accept your kind invitation."

The old carriage was brought up, Sir Peter and Lady Catherine comfortably seated, followed by Miss Juliana and her cat, Tabby; Miss Winnie and her dog, Charley; and Baby with her talking Poll, screaming, as she went, "Poll wants Baby;" with sundry band-boxes and trunks, filled with the old finery, to be packed away for future occasions; while the ladies would now assume their tartan plaid and woollen hose, until making another visitation.

Mrs. Lindsay gave one long, expressive breath; good Uncle Malcolm smiled with a look of relief, and little Annot clapped her hands as she hugged up her pet kitten, and said, "Now, tittens! that horrid dog is gone, and ye shall hae some peace o' your life."

In a few days, Edmund arrived, and received a hearty welcome from the master of Graham Hall. Soon domesticated, he revelled in the comforts of the hospitable mansion; and day after day, seated by the blazing fire of the family-room, he would rub his hands with delight, exclaiming,

"This is living, Roland! How shall I ever content myself in that Babel of a city after these grand mountains, these noble trees, this free life out-of-doors, and this glowing, warm-hearted hospitality within!"

"It is a charming home, indeed!" was Roland's reply, "the very perfection of that sweet word; though so cold without, one feels all the time here in the midst of a warm glow of Christian love, and hearty welcome."'

"What a charming piece of simplicity is that dear little Annot, Roland! So fresh! so naive! After the glitter of New York belles, she is really captivating; and then her music—why, she warbles sweetly as a mavis."

Roland smiled as he replied, "Where is Miss Hamilton, Edmund?"

"O, she is out of my reach! a bright divinity that I may worship in the distance! But this little Scotch mountain girl! innocent child that she is, charms me daily more and more, with her winning ways, and her sweet, loving eyes."

"Take care, Edmund, how you allow yourself to become enchanted; for you may never see Scotland again."

"That is not so certain, my dear sir, for I have had a taste of Highland life that I shall never forget; and this sweet face I must see again."

Roland found that he must seek out his aunt; therefore, in a day or two, Uncle Malcolm and he sat out for Douglass Manor, leaving Edmund behind to seek his own pleasures. It was a long two-storied stone mansion, that had long been in the family, and therefore dignified by the name of "The Manor."

Mr. Graham inquired for the mistress; asked into the parlor, they awaited her arrival.

In a few minutes, a tall lady, with pleasing aspect, and dignified address, entered the parlor.

"Ye are welcome, Mr. Graham; it is a long time syne I hae had this honor."

"I cam' to introduce a family connexion, Mrs. Douglass."

The lady looked earnestly at Roland, a change passed over her countenance, as she advanced towards the young man, and taking his hand, she said,—

"I dinna ken what to think, but surely ye are vera like my brother Stephen, lost so lang ago."

Malcolm had left the room.

"I am Roland Bruce, your brother's son, Aunt Douglass; you are the first relative that I have met in Scotland."

She grasped his hand, and drawing him to her, kissed him affectionately.

"My dear nephew! This is joyful indeed! Nane o' my kindred hae I left on earth, but yoursel'!"

Roland then related his story to his aunt; she was deeply moved; as soon as he mentioned the name of Elsie Gibson, she exclaimed,

"Is it possible that Elsie is in America? We missed her years ago, but nane could tell whate'er became o' her."

"What relation does she bear to us?" inquired Roland.

"Roland, she luved your father dearly, an' had he married her, he wud hae been a happier mon; but he was aye like one crazed on the subject o' Mary Gordon."

"My mother made him a good wife, Aunt Douglass; she was most faithful and devoted."

"Yes, Roland, I ken a' that to be true; but her heart was na wi' her husband."

"It was with no one else, Aunt Douglass; I wish that you could have known my dear mother."

At the end of their interview, Mrs. Douglass was convinced that her brother was yet alive.

"I will gae wi' ye, Roland, when ye return to America; I maun find my brother, for our property is yet unsettled, although my father has been dead these four years; ye maun stay wi' me, Roland, it is sic a pleasure to see a branch o' my ain hoose," and Aunt Douglass affectionately laid her hand upon the young man's shoulder.

"Looking aloft!" thought Roland, "how many of my prayers and hopes have been fulfilled! I will never distrust a gracious God, so true to all his promises."

Malcolm left Roland with the promise to come once more to Graham Hall ere he left the country.

Mrs. Douglass busied herself in preparing all the documents necessary ere she left Scotland, and after having shown her nephew all that was interesting around the Manor, she started, with her nephew for Malcolm's home.

"Would it not be better, Uncle Malcolm, to settle my mother's estate before I leave Scotland? I should like to dispose of it, for my future home will be in America."

"I will attend to all that, Roland; I have taken charge o' a' ever syne the death o' your kindred; indeed, it is sold already."

Uncle Malcolm did not then tell Roland that he was himself the purchaser, and had given a higher price than any stranger would have done.

In a short time, all was arranged; Roland received a handsome price, and old Jennie Scott was sorely distressed at the thought of a stranger in the old manse.

"Dinna trouble yourself, Jennie," was Malcolm's word of comfort; "it will be the manse still, a guid minister shall abide there, and Jennie shall be the woman o' a' wark there yet."

She kissed Malcolm's hand,—"Ye're a guid an' faithfu' mon, Mr. Graham, an' God will bless ye evermair."

The time of parting had arrived—Roland was grieved to leave the dear shelter of Graham Hall, for it was indeed to him a home, and its master a kind and generous father. Mrs. Lindsay, too, had been like a dear mother, and little Annot clung around him, and cried at parting with "dear Cousin Roland."

Edmund could not leave the dear home-circle of Graham Hall without deep regret; and as he bade a sorrowful farewell to artless Annot Lindsay, and held her little hand fondly within his own, he whispered,

"I shall come again, Annot, and then we shall have the pleasant walks and rides once more."

She dropped her sweet eyes on the ground, then raising them to Edmund's face, swimming in tears, she replied,

"I shall miss ye, Mr. Norris, so vera, vera much; but ye'll come again, an' I'll learn so mony new songs just for ye, an' nane ither."

Annot stood at the window looking at the carriage as it turned away; and ere it vanished out of sight, a familiar face smiled at her from the back of the carriage, and a hand waved a last farewell, that she knew was Edmund's.

Soon in London, Malcolm took lodgings for himself, Mrs. Douglass, and his young friends; and many pleasant visits did they pay together among the homes of the destitute; and many useful hints were given by the wise and faithful friend to Roland and Edmund. Riding out one day, Mr. Graham perceived a carriage passing close by their side. It contained two ladies, one remarkable for her beauty. She looked startled, blushed, smiled, waved her hand, and was gone.

Roland was deeply agitated,

"Who was that, Roland?" inquired his friend.

"That was Madeline Hamilton, Uncle Malcolm," and Roland dropped his eyes beneath the earnest look of his friend.

"Ye never told me that she was in London, Roland."

"No, Uncle Malcolm, I did not."

"And why, my son, may I ask?"

"I am not on terms of intimacy with Miss Hamilton now."

"How is that, Roland?"

"She does not belong to my world, Uncle Malcolm; so her relatives think."

Uncle Malcolm bit his lip, as he replied slowly,

"Does Madeline think sae, Roland?"

"I think not; she is simple-hearted, truthful as a child, above all that is sordid, or worldly; but they may spoil her here in London."

Malcolm read at once the whole of Roland's secret.

"Ye could keep up intercourse wi' Miss Hamilton if ye please, Roland?"

"I think I could, Uncle Malcolm; but I would not tempt her from the path of duty."

Malcolm Graham smiled, a bright and happy smile; for in the future, he saw a path so high! so blessed for his dear young protégé. "Looking aloft!" in the right sense thought Malcolm, "and God will take care o' his interests, for time and eternity."

"Roland, my boy, trust in God; for he will make a' things work together for your good. Seek first the kingdom o' God and his righteousness, and a' these things shall be added unto ye; all these things, Roland—whatever is for your real good."

CHAPTER XXIV.

WINGS CLIPPED THAT HAD COMMENCED TO SOAR.

Madeline is in a new atmosphere; silken fetters bind her feet, and amid the novelty of scenes so different from those at home, gradually the world acquires an ascendancy over her young heart, which almost ceases to converse with itself.

Her journal has long been laid aside; but one very rainy day she opens its pages, and contrasts her present state with the past. Madeline is humbled; taking up her pen, she resumes a record of past events and emotions. She made her entries for only a few weeks after her arrival.

"London, May 10th.—What a new world surrounds me! Ah, so novel, so different from New York! I am in a constant whirl of excitement, with scarcely time for thought. We have brought letters of introduction from Mr. Leighton and Mr. Trevor to the American minister, which bring us at once within the pale of London life among the haut-ton. Aunt Matilda is delighted; quite in her element; papa pleased because we are, but he looks very pale and languid.

* * * * * * *

"Yesterday was the great day; I was presented to the Queen by the American minister. I wanted to see Queen Victoria, because she is a rare example of a good wife and mother in a royal circle. It was a magnificent scene; such a crowd of well-developed, rosy young ladies; such splendid dressing, high-breeding, and courtly grace, I have never before seen! I understand now something about the rich glow of English beauty; but the Queen interested me most. She is not handsome, but there was a benevolent glow upon her face when she addressed me personally, and said some kind things about my country. I could have kissed her hand, but I suppose that would not have been courtly etiquette, and so I had to content myself with performing the difficult ceremony of bowing out backwards; I did not fall, and that is all I can say about the manner.

* * * * * * *

"I am busy in returning calls, visiting dress-makers, &c., for we are invited to a ball at the Duke of D——'s. I wonder if I ought to go, and leave papa; Aunt Matilda insists, and papa wishes it; it will take place next week.

* * * * * * *

"Well! I have been to the grand ball; a great crowd, magnificent rooms, superb dressing, a train of admirers, scarcely room to dance, but unable to accept all the invitations; introduced to the Earl of N——, a refined and courtly English nobleman; his wife, the Countess, is peculiarly pleasing; and his daughter, the Lady Alice, charming; a sweet, artless English girl, just making her first appearance in gay life. I don't believe that she relishes it much. Lord N——, the son, is the most pleasing gentleman that I have yet met in London; modest, unassuming, gentlemanly, and intelligent, and sufficiently good-looking to captivate the majority of young ladies. His attentions are acceptable, because they are so perfectly respectful, so unobtrusive.

"This family pleases me more than any I have seen; they must be among the best specimens of English nobility.

"Aunt Matilda is so intoxicated, by moving among nobles, that I cannot help laughing; and I fear that she will make the impression that she is really not accustomed to good society; there is so much fuss and folly about her movements. I ought not to write this of Aunt Matilda, for she is so good and kind to me; only too anxious about the number of conquests, and I shrewdly suspect that she is meditating one herself.

"Dined yesterday at the Earl of N——'s, in company with papa and Aunt Matilda; quite a family dinner, as dear papa avoids much company. I think it is a Christian family, for the good earl asked a blessing at the table so reverently. It is the perfection of a refined household; all so easy, so quiet, and in such exquisite taste; and the conversation was so improving; no frivolity, but a high-toned intelligence, that made it really a privilege to be one of the party. I find that they do not mingle much with the gay world, but as pilgrims and strangers, they are 'in the world, but not of the world.' I am thankful that we have made such an acquaintance.

"After dinner, Lady Alice led the way to the drawing-room, and, in company with her brother, entertained us with some delightful music, and showed us some very fine engravings of English scenery.

"I have been to an English opera; the music was fine, the company brilliant, and the scene altogether fascinating. In the course of the evening the Queen of England entered; when the whole audience arose, and the orchestra played with great spirit 'God save the Queen.' Her Majesty acknowledged the compliment by a gracious bow, and a warm, benevolent smile; no wonder that her subjects love her so truly. These late hours are killing to devotion; I come home so tired, that my prayers are lifeless and formal. I wonder if papa is lonely when I am away; he says not, for he is very fond of reading. I think that he reads the Bible habitually now. When I ask him anything about himself he smiles, and says that 'he will be better soon.'

"Lady Alice is very kind; their carriage is always at our disposal; she has taken us to Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's, the Parks, the Zoological Gardens, the British Museum, and the Picture Galleries; I could spend days at the latter.