Mrs. Lindsay now asked to see his niece, and the peer said he would send her down, after which he shook hands with her, and once more cautioned her against alluding to the arrangement into which they had entered touching the matrimonial affairs already discussed.  It is not our intention to give the conversation between the two ladies, which was, indeed, not one of long duration.  Mrs. Lindsay simply stated that she had been deputed by her son, Woodward, to have the honor of making a proposal in his name to her uncle, in which proposal she, Miss Riddle, was deeply concerned, but that her son himself would soon have the greater honor of pleading his own cause with the fair object of his most enthusiastic affection.  To this Miss Riddle said neither yes nor no; and, after a further chat upon indifferent topics, the matron took her departure, much satisfied, however, with the apparent suavity of the worthy peer’s fair niece.

It matters not how hard and iniquitous the hearts of mothers may be, it is a difficult thing to extinguish in them the sacred principle of maternal affection.  Mrs. Lindsay, during her son Charles’s illness, and whilst laboring under the apprehension that she was about to lose him, went to his sick room after her return from Lord Coccletown’s, and, finding he was but slightly improving,—­if improving at all,—­she felt herself much moved, and asked him how he felt.

“Indeed, my dear mother,” he replied, “I can scarcely say; I hardly know whether I am better or worse.”

Harry was in the room at the time, having gone up to ascertain his condition.

“O, come, Charles,” said she, “you were always an affectionate son, and you must strive and recover.  If it may give you strength and hope, I now tell you that the property which I intended to leave to Harry here, I shall leave to you.  Harry will not require it; he will be well off—­much better than you imagine.  He will have back that twelve hundred a year when that puny girl dies.  She is, probably, dead by this time, and he will, besides, become a wealthy man by marriage.”

“But I think, my dear mother, that Harry has the best claim to it; he is your firstborn, and your eldest son.”

“He will not require it,” replied his mother; “he is about to be married to Miss Riddle, the niece of Lord Cockle town.”

“Are you quite sure of that, mother?” asked Harry, with a brow as black as midnight.

“There is an arrangement made,” she replied; “the marriage settlements are to be drawn up, but left unsigned until the death of Alice Goodwin.”

Charles here gave a groan of agony, which, for the life of him, he could not suppress.

“She will not die, I hope,” said he; “and, mother, as for the property, leave it to Harry.  I don’t think you ought to change your contemplated arrangements on my account, even should I recover.”

“Yes, Charles, but I will—­only contrive and live; you are my son, and as sure as I have life you will be heir to my property.”