'Yes, discretion is the better part of valour,' said Mrs. Gregory. 'Give me your arm, Tom. I am not so young as I was once. You know, dear'--apologetically--'you mustn't mind what I say about your looks. To me it is just the same, though, of course, I don't _like_ to see you dreamy and romantic, for I know to what these things tend. I was so once myself.' 'And it hasn't brought you to any great harm, little mother.' 'I don't know that, Tom. However, I am a woman, and I had friends to look after me--not that they always--but that is neither here nor there. You, my poor dear, _know_ what is before you. A man in your position, with his way to make in the world, must keep all his wits about him, or he will soon find himself nowhere.' 'A country about which I have always been rather curious,' said Tom, to whom these admonitions were not new. 'How if I tried a little wool-gathering, just to have a look in?' 'Oh, well, you may laugh; but you will remember my words some day, and I only hope it may not be too late for your own comfort. And now, perhaps, you will take your letter.' 'A letter for me!' said Tom. 'Why'--scrutinising it--'this looks important--blue paper, black seal!' 'I thought it rather funny myself,' said Mrs. Gregory. 'But don't stare at it, child! Open and read it!' 'Come inside first,' said Tom. They went through a pretty little verandah, well furnished with plants, into Mrs. Gregory's drawing-room, which, though very far indeed from the daintily-æsthetic apartment that ladies haunt now, was pleasant and comfortable--well supplied with books in handsome bindings and fine engravings, and furnished with a low couch, an ottoman, and several lounging-chairs. Into one of these Tom plunged, and, having thrown down his boating-cap on the table, broke the seal of his letter. His mother, who was watching him curiously, saw his face flush red. Then she knew that there was something in his letter which surprised him. It seemed to her at that moment as if all the blood in her body were rushing to her heart, which bounded as if it would burst. The next thing she knew Tom was looking at her, with the strangest expression in his face. 'Did you know of this, mother?' he said. 'Know of what?' she cried. 'Oh, Tom! Tom! what is it? Something has happened!' 'Yes,' he said; and she fancied now that there was a curious, unusual glitter in his eyes. 'Something has happened.' She caught at his arm. 'It is something dreadful. I am sure of it from your face.' 'Dreadful!' echoed the boy, breaking into a laugh which rang unnaturally in his mother's ears. 'I think few people would call it so.' 'But what is it? Oh, Tom!' besought the poor woman, as her son turned his soft meditative eyes upon her. 'Speak at once, and don't look at me in that way. Child! child! It is like a dream come to life again. I can't bear it. Tom, I say! Speak to me. God help me! He hasn't looked so since he was a baby.'