I brought this letter, with a pen full of ink, and the noise of my approach induced his lordship to look up. He stared at first, as having forgotten the whole circumstance--then said--"O yes! I recollect, so I did--give me the pen." With a trembling hand he signed his name, and gave me back the letter without reading it, as I expected. "There, child, don't tease me any more. Good-bye; remember me to your father." I wished his lordship a good morning, and went away well satisfied with the result of my expedition. On my arrival I showed the letter to my father, who was much surprised at my success, and he assured me that my grandfather's interest was so great with the Administration, that I might consider my promotion as certain. That no accident might happen, I immediately set off for London, and delivered the letter at the door of the First Lord with my own hands, leaving my address with the porter. CHAPTER FORTY. O'BRIEN AND MYSELF TAKE A STEP EACH, "PARI PASSU"--A FAMILY REUNION, PRODUCTIVE OF ANYTHING BUT UNITY--MY UNCLE, NOT ALWAYS THE BEST FRIEND. A few days afterwards I left my card with my address with the First Lord, and the next day received a letter from his secretary, which, to my delight, informed me that my commission had been made out some days before. I hardly need say that I hastened to take it up, and when paying my fee to the clerk, I ventured, at a hazard, to inquire whether he knew the address of Lieutenant O'Brien. "No," replied he, "I wish to find it out, for he has this day been promoted to the rank of Commander." I almost leaped with joy when I heard this good news; I gave O'Brien's address to the clerk, hastened away with my invaluable piece of parchment in my hand, and set off immediately for my father's house. But I was met with sorrow. My mother had been taken severely ill, and I found the house in commotion--doctors, and apothecaries, and nurses, running to and fro, my father in a state of excitement, and my dear sister in tears. Spasm succeeded spasm; and although every remedy was applied, the next evening she breathed her last. I will not attempt to describe the grief of my father, who appeared to feel remorse at his late unkind treatment of her, my sister, and myself. These scenes must be imagined by those who have suffered under similar bereavements. I exerted myself to console my poor sister, who appeared to cling to me as to her only support, and, after the funeral was over, we recovered our tranquillity, although the mourning was still deeper in our hearts than in our outward dress. I had written to O'Brien to announce the mournful intelligence, and, like a true friend, he immediately made his appearance to console me.