“Sir,—The young man who bears this note is the only son
of the late Colonel Walter Butler, C.B. He has no fortune,
no profession, no friends, and very little ability. Can you
place him in any position where he may acquire some of the
three first and can dispense with the last?
“Your humble servant,
“Eleanor Butler.”
“Oh, Tony! you don't think we could send such a letter as this?” said she, with a half-sad smile.
“I am certain I could deliver it, mother,” said he, gravely, “and I 'm sure that it would answer its purpose just as well as a more finished composition.”
“Let me at least make a good copy of it,” said she, as he folded it up and placed it in an envelope.
“No, no,” said he; “just write his name, and all the fine things that he is sure to be, before and after it, and, as I said before, leave the issue to me.”
“And when would you think of going, Tony?”
“To-morrow morning, by the steamer that will pass this on the way to Liverpool. I know the Captain, and he will give me a passage; he's always teasing me to take a trip with him.”
“To-morrow! but how could you get ready by to-morrow? I 'll have to look over all your clothes, Tony.”
“My dear little mother,” said he, passing his arm round her, and kissing her affectionately, “how easy it is to hold a review where there 's only a corporal's guard for inspection! All my efficient movables will fit into a very small portmanteau, and I 'll pack it in less than ten minutes.”
“I see no necessity for all this haste, particularly where we have so much to consider and talk over. We ought to consult the doctor, too; he's a warm friend, Tony, and bears you a sincere affection.”