I approached the apartments appropriated to my mother: I knocked at her door; one of her women admitted me. The Countess was sitting on a high-backed chair, curiously adorned with tapestry. Her feet, which were remarkable for their beauty, were upon a velvet cushion; three hand-maids stood round her, and she herself was busily employed in a piece of delicate embroidery, an art in which she eminently excelled. “The Count, Madam!” said the woman who had admitted me, placing a chair beside my mother, and then retiring to join her sister maidens. “Good day to you, my son,” said the Countess, lifting her eyes for a moment, and then dropping them again upon her work. “I have come to seek you, dearest mother, as I know not, if, among the crowd of guests and amusements which surround us, I shall enjoy another opportunity of having a private conversation with you: will it please you to dismiss your women?” My mother again lifted up her eyes. “And why, my son? surely there _can_ be nothing between us which requires their absence; what is your reason?” “I leave you to-morrow, Madam: is it strange that a son should wish to see his mother alone before his departure?” “By no means, Morton; but your absence will not be very long, will it?” “Forgive my importunity, dear Mother; but _will_ you dismiss your attendants?” “If you wish it, certainly; but I dislike feeling alone, especially in these large rooms; nor did I think being unattended quite consistent with our rank: however, I never contradict you, my son,” and the Countess directed her women to wait in the anteroom. “Well, Morton, what is your wish?” “Only to bid you farewell, and to ask if London contains nothing which you will commission me to obtain for you?” The Countess again raised her eyes from her work. “I am greatly obliged to you, my dear son; this is a very delicate attention on your part. I am informed that stomachers are worn a thought less pointed than they were. I care not, you well know, for such vanities; but respect for the memory of your illustrious father renders me desirous to retain a seemly appearance to the world, and my women shall give you written instructions thereon to Madame Tourville; she lives in St. James’s Street, and is the only person to be employed in these matters. She is a woman who has known misfortune, and appreciates the sorrowful and subdued tastes of those whom an exalted station has not preserved from like afflictions. So you go to-morrow: will you get me the scissors? They are on the ivory table yonder. When do you return?” “Perhaps never!” said I, abruptly. “Never, Morton; how singular--why?” “I may join the army, and be killed.”