‘In that wish, my dear boy, you teach me what I ought myself to do.--No, James, I can never desire nor expect that my children will sacrifice themselves for me--for I regard it as no less than immolation when the heart revolts at the tasks which the hand performs. But my life has long been one continued sorrow; and it is natural that I should shrink at the approach of another and a darker cloud. I will not, however, ask you to remain with your uncle, nor even oppose your resolution to go abroad. But be not precipitate--consider the grief, the anxieties, and the humiliations, that both your father and I have endured, and think, were you united to Ellen Frazer, supposing her father and friends would consent to so unequal a match, what would be her fate were you cut early off, as your father was?--It is the thought of that--of what I myself, with you and for you, have borne, which weighs so grievously at this moment on my spirits.’ ‘Do you wish me to return to Glasgow?’ said Walkinshaw with an anxious and agitated voice. ‘Not unless you feel yourself that you can do so without humiliation--for bitter, James, as my cup has been, and ill able as I am to wrestle with the blast, I will never counsel child of mine to do that which may lessen him in his own opinion. Heaven knows that there are mortifications ready enough in the world to humble us--we do not need to make any for ourselves--no, unless you can meet your uncle with a frank face and a free heart, do not return.’ ‘I am sure, then, that I never can,’ replied Walkinshaw. ‘I feel as if he had insulted my nature, by venturing to express what he seems to think of me; and a man can forgive almost any injury but a mean opinion of him.’ ‘But if you do not go to him, perhaps you will not find it difficult to obtain a situation in another counting-house?’ ‘If I am not to return to his, I would rather at once leave the place--I never liked it, and I shall now like it less than ever. In a word, my intention is to go, if possible, to America.’ ‘Go where you will, my blessing and tears is all, my dear boy, that I can give you.’ ‘Then you approve of my wish to go to America?’ ‘I do not object to it, James--It is a difficult thing for a mother to say that she approves of her son exposing himself to any hazard.’ ‘What would you have said, could I have obtained a commission in the army and a war raging?’ ‘Just what I say now--nor should I have felt more sorrow in seeing you go to a campaign than I shall feel when you leave me to encounter the yet to you untried perils of the world. Indeed, I may say, I should almost feel less, for in the army, with all its hazard, there is a certain degree of assurance, that a young man, if he lives, will be fashioned into an honourable character.’ ‘I wish that there was a war,’ said Walkinshaw with such sincere simplicity, that even his mother could scarcely refrain from smiling.