It was now about the middle of November, and Stuart was fully occupied with altering and restoring his cottages before the severe weather set in. He went out early and returned late, so that his mother found the desired opportunity long in coming. At last, one afternoon, she perceived him striding up the avenue, and, leaving her boudoir, she met him in the hall. “Well, mother,” said Stuart, smiling, “not out to-day? You are wise--it is ankle-deep in mud. Don’t come near me--I am not fit to approach you. I have come back for an agreement I made about Cullam’s cottage; I must be off directly.” “What is your hurry, Stuart?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. “Cannot you spare me a few minutes? I have long wanted to speak to you, but really you are so much engaged, I have had no chance.” “Of course I am ready, mother, if you wish it,” Stuart replied, though not readily. He never cared for these brief intervals of conversation with his mother; they invariably annoyed him. “Come to my boudoir for a few minutes.” He followed Mrs. Crosbie in silence; then, as she closed the door, he walked to the window and leaned against the ledge. “Well, mother?” he said, in a tone of impatience. Mrs. Crosbie stirred the fire, then warmed her white hands. She looked at her son, and the sight of his grave, handsome face strengthened her purpose. It was such a faint likeness to the merry, bright face of a few months back. “Stuart,” she began, quietly, “I wish to speak to you seriously. Do you intend to lead this kind of life always?” “What kind of life, mother?” “This dull, monotonous, farmerlike existence. Have you no aim--no ambition?” “None,” Stuart answered, laconically. His mother moved impatiently in her seat. “Pray, be sensible, Stuart,” she said, sharply; “you were never like this before. It galls me, it wounds me to see you wasting your days down here, pottering about on the farms, and for what?” “Some one must look after things, mother; my father cannot, and you have often complained to me of the bad management, so I have determined to relieve you of further anxiety.” “Pshaw! Do I want my son to turn steward? I have to-day received a letter from Lady Bayliffe strongly recommending me a manager, and I have all but settled to engage him.” “Then don’t do it,” promptly replied Stuart. “He is not wanted.” “He is wanted! I shall not allow you, Stuart, to do this kind of work.” “My dear mother, I am of age!” Mrs. Crosbie was silent, and Stuart, looking up, saw the pain and perplexity on her face. “Forgive me, mother,” he added, moving toward her. “I am very selfish. Tell me what you want me to do, and if it is in my power I will undertake it.” “I want you to rise in the world; I want you to be famous, Stuart.” “Fame is not to be bought, mother.” “It is within your reach. Contest Chesterham at the next election. You will be returned with an immense majority. The rest will follow.” “I have no brains for politics,” declared Stuart. “I cannot do it.”