“She is quite right to leave us alone together under the circumstances. And now tell me why my precious boy should doubt that his own mother wished to see him.” “I don’t know why he should,” said Cashel, with melancholy submission to her affection. “But he did.” “How insensible you are! Did you not know that you were always my cherished darling--my only son?” Cashel, who was now sitting beside her on an ottoman, groaned and moved restlessly, but said nothing. “Are you glad to see me?” “Yes,” said Cashel, dismally, “I suppose I am. I--By Jingo,” he cried, with sudden animation, “perhaps you can give me a lift here. I never thought of that. I say, mamma; I am in great trouble at present, and I think you can help me if you will.” Mrs. Byron looked at him satirically. But she said, soothingly, “Of course I will help you--as far as I am able--my precious one. All I possess is yours.” Cashel ground his feet on the floor impatiently, and then sprang up. After an interval, during which he seemed to be swallowing some indignant protest, he said, “You may put your mind at rest, once and for all, on the subject of money. I don’t want anything of that sort.” “I am glad you are so independent, Cashel.” “So am I.” “Do, pray, be more amiable.” “I am amiable enough,” he cried, desperately, “only you won’t listen.” “My treasure,” said Mrs. Byron, remorsefully. “What is the matter?” “Well,” said Cashel, somewhat mollified, “it is this. I want to marry Miss Carew; that’s all.” “YOU marry Miss Carew!” Mrs. Byron’s tenderness had vanished, and her tone was shrewd and contemptuous. “Do you know, you silly boy, that--” “I know all about it,” said Cashel, determinedly--“what she is, and what I am, and the rest of it. And I want to marry her; and, what’s more, I will marry her, if I have to break the neck of every swell in London first. So you can either help me or not, as you please; but if you won’t, never call me your precious boy any more. Now!” Mrs. Byron abdicated her dominion there and then forever. She sat with quite a mild expression for some time in silence. Then she said, “After all, I do not see why you should not. It would be a very good match for you.” “Yes; but a deuced bad one for her.” “Really, I do not see that, Cashel. When your uncle dies, I suppose you will succeed to the Dorsetshire property.” “I the heir to a property! Are you in earnest?” “Of course. Don’t you know who your people are?” “How could I? You never told me. Do you mean to say that I have an uncle?” “Old Bingley Byron? Certainly.” “Well, I AM blowed. But--but--I mean--Supposing he IS my uncle, am I his lawful heir?” “Yes. Walford Byron, the only other brother of your father, died years ago, while you were at Moncrief’s; and he had no sons. Bingley is a bachelor.” “But,” said Cashel, cautiously, “won’t there be some bother about my--at least--” “My dearest child, what are you thinking or talking about? Nothing can be clearer than your title.”