NEVER FORGOTTEN.

PART THE FIRST.
CHAPTER XXV. NEWS FROM HOME.

On the night of the festival, the young ladies
Fermor took a long while to dress. Lady Laura
had finished her dressing early, as she always did,
and her gaunt worn figure was hung with rich
stuffs, just as they hang the aged stones of
Temple-bar on a royal visit to the City. She
was sitting waiting with her relation, dressed
also, and they were both discussing Charles.

The English mail had been late, and was just
brought in. A small despatch for the diplomatist,
which he flung himself upon and tore
with his talons; two or three ladylike letters
for the family, in shape like enlarged visiting-
cards. One was in Fermor's writing, and had his
name written boldly outside, with an official air.

"A letter from Charles," said Lady Laura,
with something like enthusiasm; " now we shall
see what he is to do."

"Well," said Sir Hopkins, glancing over the
letter he had also received, "that is so far satisfactory.
Old Seymour is likely to go—to move
on, as he should have done long ago. What did I
tell you? I know how to deal with these sort
of people. Well, what does Mr. Charles say?"

The answer was something like a scream.
The tall gaunt woman, in all her finery, had
fallen back on the sofa. For a moment he
thought she was in a fit, but he was well accustomed
to the Waipiti cries and war-dances.
With true diplomatic instinct, he went over on
tiptoe—for which there was no need—and
closed the door softly. He was more alarmed
about the letter, for he was sure that Charles
was dying or dead.

The next moment she had started into a sort
of galvanic life. "Think of it!" she said,
"only think of him; it is dreadful, isn't it?
O, that such a blow should come upon me!"

Sir Hopkins made attempts to secure the letter
for his own reading, but she was brandishing it
hysterically. "Gambled," thought the diplomatist,
"and lost every sixpence. Shan't pay
a florin for him, though."

"Such a disgrace to bring on us all! He
must be mad. Does he want to ruin us?
What have we done to him that he should degrade
us in this way? One blow after another!
I am sure we had troubles enough of our own
without that!"

Again the diplomatist tried ineffectually for
the letter. "Married an innkeeper's daughter,"
he thought, bitterly. "A fool! I have done
with him. Let me see what he writes, Laura."

"You know," she said, swaying herself back
and forward, "what we reckoned on from him!
You know how we talked, and what we were
to make of him. Now that these girls have
failed so wretchedly, he was the only thing we
had to look to. And the air with which he writes
it to me, as if he were getting a princess!"

"It is the innkeeper's daughter," thought the
diplomatist; and she now let him take the
letter. He got out his silver double glass,
which hung about his neck like an amulet, and
read it carefully.

It was our friend's skilful composition, breaking
the news of his proceedings. It is plain
that he had sadly miscalculated its effect. Carefully
worded as it was, it had not made this
raging mother and cold diplomatist see the
thing in the light he fancied it would. He
thought his words were sure to be as soothing
as drops of camphor julep. Poor Fermor! so
much rhetoric expended like blank cartridges.

Lady Laura waited while the diplomatist read,
her sunk flattened chest heaving outwards like
a decayed wall about to fall in. Into her worn
and faded cheek colour had actually forced its
way, a visitor long estranged. Sir Hopkins
read through Fermor's philosophical composition.
The embossed and initialed document
began:

{IMAGE} C.F.

"My dear Mother,—I wish to communicate
a little matter which I dare say may surprise you.
Not that there is anything astonishing in what I
am about to do, for it is a step which I and every
man, who proposes seriously to take his proper
station in the commonwealth, must eventually
take. The idea, my dear mother, of a long life
spent selfishly in administering to oneself, in
doing nothing for others, and, above all, the
notion of leaving no more mark of one's path behind
than if it were made on the sea, this is what I
never could bear to look forward to. I shrink
from it, and always have shrunk from it. Your
true gentleman will live for others as well as for
himself, and will bequeath his name in trust to