The carriage stops--Annot is folded in the arms of her dear mother, and Uncle Malcolm grasps warmly the extended hands of Roland and Madeline. "Welcome a thousand times to Woodcliff, dear uncle!" exclaims Roland; and Stephen Bruce also advances with a timid step, but placid smile, to greet the new comers. "What little boy is this?" asks the good man, as he lays his hand on the head of Roland's son, standing by anxious to be noticed by the stranger. "This is Malcolm Graham," answered the happy father. Mr. Graham changed countenance, and whispered, "How came this, Roland? I aye thought it strange that ye did na name him Stephen." "My father named the boy himself." Uncle Malcolm smiled gratefully at this token of entire forgetfulness of the painful past, and lifting the dear child in his arms, kissed him fondly, as he laid the hand of blessing on his dark brown hair. While Madeline is presenting her other darlings, Annot's eyes are moistened with happy tears, as she leads little Roland and Anna up to their grandma and uncle, who pronounce them "darling pets," and the proud young mother is full of innocent delight. Changes have taken place in all the party--ten years have added many silver hairs to Malcolm Graham's noble head, but to him they are indeed a crown of glory. Mrs. Lindsay is stouter and more matronly--Madeline has exchanged the bewitching charms of young girlhood for the ripe beauty of a queenly woman, retaining still the brightness and vivacity of early youth, and the arch expression of her lovely face. Roland is a noble man of thirty-seven, with a fine, commanding figure, the same dark eagle eye, and sweet expressive smile of benevolence. Annot is no more the lovely child, with her wealth of golden ringlets falling round her face and shoulders; but the blooming wife in the first flush of sweet young womanhood. Seated between the two, Uncle Malcolm takes the hand of each, saying, "Here are baith my daughters! well, ye are making Uncle Malcolm an auld mon, wi' yer bairns skipping around me; but I hope that my heart will ne'er grow old." "You will never grow old in feeling, uncle," said Madeline; "and we are so happy to have you with us; but you must be tired; come, Annot, let us show Uncle his room." Each taking an arm, they led him to his pleasant chamber; Annot retiring with her mother, and Madeline busying herself about Uncle Malcolm. "Here is a warm winter wrapper, and a pair of chamber slippers; I knew that you would like them, uncle." The old gentleman sat down in his comfortable chair; and, looking around on all the arrangements of his room, with the bright fire lighting up the whole, said, "Well, Madeline! this is comfort! ye will spoil the auld mon among ye." "No danger, dear uncle," as she kissed the calm forehead; "we can never do too much for you, for are you not my husband's dearest, warmest friend?"