“I just had it by, Tony, for a rainy day, as they call it; or I meant to have made you a smart present on the fourth of next month, for your birthday.--I forget, indeed, what I intended it for,” said she, wiping her eyes, “for this sudden notion of yours has driven everything clean out of my head; and all I can think of is if there be buttons on your shirts, and how many pairs of socks you have.” “I'm sure everything is right; it always is. And now go to bed like a dear little woman, and I 'll come in and say good-bye before I start in the morning.” “No, no, Tony; I 'll be up and make you a cup of tea.” “That you shall not. What a fuss to make of a trip to London; as if I was going to Auckland or the Fijee Islands? By the way, mother, would n't you come out to me if the great man gave me something very fine and lucrative?--for I can't persuade myself that he won't make me a governor somewhere.” She could not trust herself to speak, and merely clutched his hand in both her own and held it fast. “There's another thing,” said he, after a short struggle with himself; “there may possibly be notes or messages of one sort or another from Lyle Abbey; and just hint that I 've been obliged to leave home for a day or two. You need n't say for where nor how long; but that I was called away suddenly,--too hurriedly to go up and pay my respects, and the rest of it I 'm not quite sure you 'll be troubled in this way; but if you should, say what I have told you.” “The doctor will be sorry not to have said good-bye, Tony.” “I may be back again before he need hear of my having gone. And now, good-night, dear mother; I 'll come and see you before I start.” When Tony Butler found himself alone in his room, he opened his writing-desk and prepared to write,--a task, for him, of no common magnitude and of the very rarest occurrence. What it exacted in the way of strain and effort may be imagined from the swelling of the veins in his forehead, and the crimson patches that formed on his cheeks. “What would I give now,” muttered he, “for just ten minutes of ready tact, to express myself suitably,--to keep down my own temper, and at the same time make _his_ boil over! If I have ten years of life before me, I 'd give five of them to be able to do this; but I cannot,--I cannot! To say all that I want, and not be a braggart or something worse, requires mind and judgment and tact, and twenty other gifts that I have not got; and I have only to picture him going about with my letter in his hand, showing it to every one, with a sheer at my mode of expression,--possibly of my spelling! Here goes; my very writing shames me:--