My father sent me to bed early that night, though I was very eager to stay up, for every word which this man said held my attention.  His face, his manner, the large waves and sweeps of his white hands, his easy air of superiority, his fantastic fashion of talk, all filled me with interest and wonder.  But, as I afterwards learned, their conversation was to be about myself and my own prospects², so I was despatched to my room, whence far into the night I could hear the deep growl³ of my father and the rich tones of my uncle, with an occasional gentle murmur⁴ from my mother, as they talked in the room beneath.

 

I had dropped asleep at last, when I was awakened⁵ suddenly by something wet being pressed against my face, and by two warm arms which were cast round me.  My mother’s cheek was against my own, and I could hear the click of her sobs⁶, and feel her quiver and shake in the darkness.  A faint light stole through the latticed window, and I could dimly see that she was in white, with her black hair loose upon her shoulders.

 

“You won’t forget us, Roddy?  You won’t forget us?”

 

“Why, mother, what is it?”

 

“Your uncle, Roddy—he is going to take you away from us.”

 

“When, mother?”

 

“To-morrow.”

 

God forgive me, how my heart bounded for joy, when hers, which was within touch of it, was breaking with sorrow!

 

“Oh, mother!” I cried.  “To London?”

 

“First to Brighton, that he may present you to the Prince.  Next day to London, where you will meet the great people, Roddy, and learn to look down upon—to look down upon your poor, simple, old-fashioned father and mother.”

 

I put my arms about her to console her, but she wept so that, for all my seventeen years and pride of manhood, it set me weeping also, and with such a hiccoughing noise, since I had not a woman’s

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