“That will do,” said Mrs. Mel. “I’ll send you up some tea presently. Lie down, Dandy.” The house was dark and silent when Evan, refreshed by his rest, descended to seek his mother. She was sitting alone in the parlour. With a tenderness which Mrs. Mel permitted rather than encouraged, Evan put his arm round her neck, and kissed her many times. One of the symptoms of heavy sorrow, a longing for the signs of love, made Evan fondle his mother, and bend over her yearningly. Mrs. Mel said once: “Dear Van; good boy!” and quietly sat through his caresses. “Sitting up for me, mother?” he whispered. “Yes, Van; we may as well have our talk out.” “Ah!” he took a chair close by her side, “tell me my father’s last words.” “He said he hoped you would never be a tailor.” Evan’s forehead wrinkled up. “There’s not much fear of that, then!” His mother turned her face on him, and examined him with a rigorous placidity; all her features seeming to bear down on him. Evan did not like the look. “You object to trade, Van?” “Yes, decidedly, mother—hate it; but that’s not what I want to talk to you about. Didn’t my father speak of me much?” “He desired that you should wear his militia sword, if you got a commission.” “I have rather given up hope of the Army,” said Evan. Mrs. Mel requested him to tell her what a colonel’s full pay amounted to; and again, the number of years it required, on a rough calculation, to attain that grade. In reply to his statement she observed: “A tailor might realize twice the sum in a quarter of the time.” “What if he does—double, or treble?” cried Evan, impetuously; and to avoid the theme, and cast off the bad impression it produced on him, he rubbed his hands, and said: “I want to talk to you about my prospects, mother.” “What are they?” Mrs. Mel inquired. The severity of her mien and sceptical coldness of her speech caused him to inspect them suddenly, as if she had lent him her eyes. He put them by, till the gold should recover its natural shine, saying: “By the way, mother, I’ve written the half of a History of Portugal.” “Have you?” said Mrs. Mel. “For Louisa?” “No, mother, of course not: to sell it. Albuquerque! what a splendid fellow he was!” Informing him that he knew she abominated foreign names, she said: “And your prospects are, writing Histories of Portugal?” “No, mother. I was going to tell you, I expect a Government appointment. Mr. Jocelyn likes my work—I think he likes me. You know, I was his private secretary for ten months.” “You write a good hand,” his mother interposed. “And I’m certain I was born for diplomacy.” “For an easy chair, and an ink-dish before you, and lacqueys behind. What’s to be your income, Van?” Evan carelessly remarked that he must wait and see. “A very proper thing to do,” said Mrs. Mel; for now that she had fixed him to some explanation of his prospects, she could condescend in her stiff way to banter.