for several years commander-in-chief in
this country, and the 5th and last viscount; was a Mademoiselle
Kilmansegge, who was supposed to be a natural daughter of George I.
This would make these three officers and George II. first-cousins;
and George III their great-nephew _a la mode de Bretagne_.
Walpole, and various other English writers, speak openly, not only of
the connection, but of the family resemblance. Indeed, most of the
gossiping writers of that age seem to allow that Lord Howe was a
grandson of the first English sovereign of the House of Brunswick.]

"You astonish me, Bob! I did not think it could ever come to this!"

"I thought your native attachments would hardly endure as strong a
measure as this has got to be," answered the major, not a little
satisfied with the strength of feeling manifested by his father. "Yet
has this been done, sir, and done in a way that it will not be easy to
recall. Those who now resist us, resist for the sake of throwing off
all connection with England."

"Has France any agency in this, Bob?--I own it startles me, and has a
French look."

"It has driven many of the most respectable of our enemies into our
arms, sir. We have never considered you a direct enemy, though
unhappily inclining too much against us; 'but this will determine Sir
Hugh,' said the commander-in-chief in our closing interview--I suppose
you know, my dear father, that all your old friends, knowing what has
happened, insist on calling you Sir Hugh. I assure you, I never open my
lips on the subject; and yet Lord Howe drank to the health of Sir Hugh
Willoughby, openly at his own table, the last time I had the honour to
dine with him."

"Then the next time he favours you with an invitation, Bob, be kind
enough to thank him. I want no empty baronetcy, nor do I ever think of
returning to England to live. Were all I had on earth drummed together,
it would barely make out a respectable competency for a private
gentleman in that extravagant state of society; and what is a mere name
to one in such circumstances? I wish it were transferable, my dear boy,
in the old Scotch mode, and you should be Sir Bob before you slept."

"But, Willoughby, it may be useful to Robert, and why should he not
have the title, since neither you nor I care for it?" asked the
considerate mother.

"So he may, my dear; though he must wait for an event that I fancy you
are not very impatient to witness--my death. When I am go