ecting scene of
meeting between mother and son. Two days after his arrival we find them
both seated at tea in the old drawing-room drinking out of the old mug,
with the name "William" emblazoned on it, in which, in days gone by, he
was wont to dip his infantine lips and nose. Not that he had selected
this vessel of his own free will, but his mother, who was a romantic old
lady, insisted on his using it, in order to bring back to her more
vividly the days of his childhood, and Will, in the fulness of his
heart, said he would be glad to drink tea out of the coal-scuttle if
that would give her pleasure. The good lady even sent to the
lumber-room for the old arm-chair of his babyhood, but as neither
ingenuity nor perseverance could enable him to squeeze his stout person
into that, he was fain to content himself with an ordinary chair.

"Now, dear mother," said Will, commencing the fifth slice of toast,
under pressure (having eaten the fourth with difficulty), "you have not
yet told me about this wonderful estate which everybody seems to know of
except myself."

"Ah! darling Will," sighed Mrs Osten, "I have avoided the subject as
long as possible, for I know it is to be the cause of our being
separated again. But there is no help for it, because I promised your
dear father when he was dying that I would tell you his wishes in regard
to it, and that I would not attempt to dissuade you from doing your
duty. Well, you remember uncle Edward, I suppose?"

"His name--yes," said Will, "but I never knew anything else about him.
I had nothing to remember or to forget, except, indeed, that he got the
name of being a wild scapegrace, something like myself!"

"Like yourself, darling," exclaimed the old lady, with a look of
indignation--"no indeed! Have not you repented and come back, like a
good prodigal son; and didn't the dear beautiful letter that you wrote
from that awful island--what's its name--where you were all but eaten
alive--"

"The coral island," suggested Will.

"Yes, the coral island--didn't that dear letter give more delight to
your beloved father than any letter he ever received in his life, and
more than made up to him for your running away, and cheered him to his
last hour, whereas uncle Edward was wicked to the last--at least so it
is said, but I don't know, and it's not right to speak ill of the dead.
Well, as I was going to say, uncle Edward died in some outlandish place
in North America, I never can re