a magnum of claret which he had himself discovered in the
old cellars, and of which even Glastonbury, an habitual water-drinker,
ventured to partake. As for Lady Armine, she scarcely ever ceased
talking; she found a jest in every sentence, and seemed only uneasy when
there was silence. Ferdinand, of course, yielded himself to the apparent
spirit of the party; and, had a stranger been present, he could only
have supposed that they were celebrating some anniversary of domestic
joy. It seemed rather a birth-day feast than the last social meeting of
those who had lived together so long, and loved each other so dearly.

But as the evening drew on their hearts began to grow heavy, and every
one was glad that the early departure of the travellers on the morrow
was an excuse for speedily retiring.

'No adieus to-night!' said Lady Armine with a gay air, as she
scarcely returned the habitual embrace of her son. 'We shall be all up
to-morrow.'

So wishing his last good night with a charged heart and faltering
tongue, Ferdinand Armine took up his candle and retired to his chamber.
He could not refrain from exercising an unusual scrutiny when he had
entered the room. He held up the light to the old accustomed walls, and
threw a parting glance of affection at the curtains. There was the glass
vase which his mother had never omitted each day to fill with fresh
flowers, and the counterpane that was her own handiwork. He kissed it;
and, flinging off his clothes, was glad when he was surrounded with
darkness and buried in his bed.

There was a gentle tap at his door. He started.

'Are you in bed, my Ferdinand?' inquired his mother's voice.

Ere he could reply he heard the door open, and observed a tall white
figure approaching him.

Lady Armine, without speaking, knelt down by his bedside and took him in
her arms. She buried her face in his breast. He felt her tears upon his
heart. He could not move; he could not speak. At length he sobbed aloud.

'May our Father that is in heaven bless you, my darling child; may He
guard over you; may He preserve you!' Very weak was her still, solemn
voice. 'I would have spared you this, my darling. For you, not for
myself, have I controlled my feelings. But I knew not the strength of a
mother's love. Alas! what mother has a child like thee? O! Ferdinand,
my first, my only-born: child of love and joy and happiness, that never
cost me a thought of sorrow; so kind, so gentle, and so dutiful! must