In a moment more we were in the presence of that sweet, long-loved, immortalized “Highland Mary;” and well might Robert Burns have mourned her loss, and well might the poet soul have sung his sweetest song “To Mary in Heaven.” The features of this sainted maiden were almost transparent; a halo of celestial beauty shone about her form as she moved; her beautiful eyes emitted a radiance that must have been dazzling to those not fitted to enter her sphere of purity; her bonny hair rippled down her back in waves of golden light. The beauty of mind, the purity of an innocent heart, the tenderness of soul, expressing itself in sympathy toward the weak and erring, combined with traces of experience in human suffering, manifested themselves in the chastened refinement of that lovely countenance, and the sphere of purity surrounding that angelic being. I stood before her abashed and humbled; but a moment more, the sweet voice of Burns’ Mary bade me welcome, and I was made to feel at home. Years of experience in the higher life had been of inestimable value to that maiden; she had had the teaching of highly-developed spirits, and the beauty, brilliancy and grace of a cultured mind, that was accustomed to deep thinking, were plainly discernible in her remarks. I was content to be a listener, and to drink deeply of the living waters of truth that flowed from the gifted mind of my host, and from the tender, loving soul of his companion. But our stay in the pavilion was short; I would fain have lingered far longer, but the lady, “on hospitable thoughts intent,” after the fashion of woman everywhere, seemed anxious that I should be conducted to the house and have refreshments. My protestations were overruled, and we accordingly started for the abode,—not by the way my host and I had come, but on the outer side of the garden. On our journey I made a new discovery: Mary had turned to me previously, and said: “I would like you to see my aviary, the place where I keep my pets; in fact, their shelterhouse;” and soon I understood to what she referred. We were approaching a thicket of bushes; I recognized furze, gorse, and hawthorn among them. Passing through this thicket, we entered an extension of the garden, still laid out in beds of beautiful flowers. A grove of trees, in the center of which a pretty fountain sent up its jets of crystal water, arrested my attention, and beyond that, the sparkling roof of a large glass building. The bushes and trees resounded with the melody issuing from the gaily-feathered throats of numerous songsters, of every size and variety. It was a bird kingdom upon a small scale. As we entered, the birds surrounded us, alighting upon the heads and shoulders of my companions; but while they flew close to and around me, only one, a tiny white warbler, would alight upon my person. This perched upon my shoulder, and chirped and nodded as pert as possible.