alled on the day appointed, and
sent up his card. The First Lord could not see him, but referred him to
the private secretary, who presented him with his commission to the
_Rattlesnake_, eighteen-gun brig. The secretary smiled most graciously,
and told O'Brien in confidence that he would proceed to the West India
station as soon as his vessel was manned and ready for sea. He inquired
of O'Brien whom he wished as his first lieutenant. O'Brien replied that
he wished for me; but as, in all probability, I should not be of
sufficient standing to be first lieutenant, that the Admiralty might
appoint any other to the duty, provided I joined the ship. The secretary
made a minute of O'Brien's wish, and requested him, if he had a vacancy
to spare as midshipman, to allow him to send one on board; to which
O'Brien willingly acceded, shook hands with him, and O'Brien quitted the
Admiralty to hasten down to us with the pleasing intelligence.

"And now," said O'Brien, "I have made up my mind how to proceed. I shall
first run down to Plymouth and hoist my pennant; then I shall ask for a
fortnight's leave, and go to Ireland to see how they get on, and what
Father M'Grath may be about. So, Peter, let's pass this evening as
happily as we can; for though you and I shall soon meet again, yet it
may be years, or perhaps never, that we three shall sit down on the same
sofa as we do now."

Ellen, who was still nervous, from the late death of my mother, looked
down, and I perceived the tears start in her eyes at the remark of
O'Brien, that perhaps we should never meet again. And I did pass a happy
evening. I had a dear sister on one side of me, and a sincere friend on
the other. How few situations more enviable!

O'Brien left us early the next morning; and at breakfast-time a letter
was handed to my father. It was from my uncle, coldly communicating to
him that Lord Privilege had died the night before, very suddenly, and
informing him that the burial would take place on that day week, and
that the will would be opened immediately after the funeral. My father
handed the letter over to me without saying a word, and sipped his tea
with his tea-spoon. I cannot say that I felt very much on the occasion;
but I did feel, because he had been kind to me at one time: as for my
father's feelings, I could not--or rather I should say, I did not wish
to analyze them. As soon as he had finished his cup of tea, he left the
breakfast-table, and went into his