reakfast was no sooner through, than
Mrs. Willoughby retired to her own sitting-room, whither her son was
shortly summoned to join her. Expecting some of the inquiries which
maternal affection might prompt, the major proceeded to the place named
with alacrity; but, on entering the room, to his great surprise he
found Maud with his mother. The latter seemed grave and concerned,
while the former was not entirely free from alarm. The young man
glanced inquiringly at the young lady, and he fancied he saw tears
struggling to break out of her eyes.

"Come hither, Robert"--said Mrs. Willoughby, pointing to a chair at her
side--with a gravity that struck her son as unusual--"I have brought
you here to listen to one of the old-fashioned lectures, of which you
got so many when a boy."

"Your advice, my dear mother--or even your reproofs--would be listened
to with far more reverence and respect, now, than I fear they were
then," returned the major, seating himself by the side of Mrs.
Willoughby, and taking one of her hands, affectionately, in both his
own. "It is only in after-life that we learn to appreciate the
tenderness and care of such a parent as you have been; though what I
have done lately, to bring me in danger of the guard-house, I cannot
imagine. Surely _you_ cannot blame me for adhering to the crown,
at a moment like this!"

"I shall not interfere with your conscience in this matter, Robert; and
my own feelings, American as I am by birth and family, rather incline
me to think as you think. I have wished to see you, my son, on a
different business."

"Do not keep me in suspense, mother; I feel like a prisoner who is
waiting to hear his charges read. What have I done?"

"Nay, it is rather for _you_ to tell _me_ what you have done.
You cannot have forgotten, Robert, how very anxious I have been to
awaken and keep alive family affection, among my children; how very
important both your father and I have always deemed it; and how
strongly we have endeavoured to impress this importance on all your
minds. The tie of family, and the love it ought to produce, is one of
the sweetest of all our earthly duties. Perhaps we old people see its
value more than you young; but, to us, the weakening of it seems like a
disaster only a little less to be deplored than death."

"Dearest--dearest mother! What _can_ you--what _do_ you
mean?--What can _I_--what can _Maud_ have to do with this?"

"Do not your consciences tell you, both?