“Poor Godfrey,” said he, “appointed me his sole executor a few days before it happened; he knew the time was drawing near, and strange enough, Charley, though he heard of your return to England, he would not let us write. The papers spoke of you as being at Carlton House almost daily; your name appeared at every great festival; and while his heart warmed at your brilliant success, he absolutely dreaded your coming home. ‘Poor fellow,’ he would say, ‘what a change for him, to leave the splendor and magnificence of his Prince’s board for our meagre fare and altered fortunes! And then,’ he added, ‘as for me--God forgive me!--I can go now; but how should I bear to part with him if he comes back to me.’ And now,” said the count, when he had concluded a detailed history of my dear uncle’s last illness,--“and now, Charley, what are your plans?” Briefly, and in a few words, I stated to him my intentions. Without placing much stress upon the strongest of my reasons--my distaste to what had once been home--I avowed my wish to join my regiment at once. He heard me with evident impatience, and as I finished, seized my arm in his strong grasp. “No, no, boy, none of this; your tone of assumed composure cannot impose on Bill Considine. You must not return to the Peninsula--at least not yet awhile; the disgust of life may be strong at twenty, but it’s not lasting; besides, Charley,” here his voice faltered slightly, “_his_ wishes you’ll not treat lightly. Read this.” As he spoke, he took a blotted and ill-written letter from his breast-pocket, and handed it to me. It was in my poor uncle’s hand, and dated the very morning of his death. It ran thus:-- Dear Bill,--Charley must never part with the old house, come what will; I leave too many ties behind for a stranger’s heritage; he must live among my old friends, and watch, protect and comfort them. He has done enough for fame; let him now do something for affection. We have none of us been over good to these poor people; one of the name must try and save our credit. God bless you both! It is, perhaps, the last time I shall utter it. G. O’M. I read these few and, to me, affecting lines over and over, forgetful of all save of him who penned them; when Considine, who supposed that my silence was attributable to doubt and hesitation, called out:-- “Well, what now?” “I remain,” said I, briefly. He seized me in his arms with transport, as he said:--