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."