See her dispensing afternoon tea in her own dainty drawing-room, with its bizarre Orientalism suggesting the boudoir of some Eastern princess in the “Arabian Nights”; she is clad in a picturesque tea-gown, which is itself quite a poem in drapery, while her graceful movements are its rhythm. Can you wonder at that group of admirers sitting around her, each seeming most anxious for the departure of the others? It is a pleasant spell to be under; I would not be out of its reach for worlds. Why, Mrs. Willoweed’s busy talk is a mental tonic, and her laugh is as exhilarating as sparkling wine. To drink tea with her _tête-à-tête_ of an afternoon is a delightful privilege; and there is always the added excitement of fearing the intrusion of other visitors. Unfortunately, there are always so many candidates for this pleasure. You see, Mrs. Willoweed is not a woman with a mission of any kind; she has plenty of money, plenty of leisure, and nothing to do, and she devotes her life to doing it as delightfully as possible. A little widow may be a dangerous thing, but the danger is harmless; at least, I am sure it is so with little Mrs. Willoweed. _MY MOTHER_ This is my birthday, and it is not unnatural that I should be thinking of my mother. Let me talk to you of her, for in all the world of women I know of none so near perfection. I say this in no mere boastful spirit. It is my firm conviction, the result of a life’s experience; and I say it, moreover, in the full consciousness that there are millions of men ready to challenge my statement in favour of their own mothers. And it is well that it should be so. I am glad to think it, for good mothers, by their very love-worthiness, preserve the moral equilibrium of the world. Therefore, I am happy to believe that other men think their mothers superior to mine though I have the advantage of them, for they do not know mine as I do, in the relation of mother and son. That makes all the difference. To every man worthy of the name his mother must be an angel of goodness, the object of his holiest devotion. Why, the very word suggests the most sacred sentiments of humanity; it is a beautiful word, and one that most readily inspires all that is tender and gentle and pure in feeling. What, for instance, could be more tender than those lines of Edgar Allan Poe’s, most passionate, intemperate, and truly poetic of poets? “Because I feel that, in the heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of ‘mother.’”