The Last.
“Geo’ge, your mudder wants you.”
Such were the words which aroused George Foster from a reverie one morning as he stood at the window of a villa on the coast of Kent, fastening his necktie and contemplating the sea.
“Nothing wrong, I hope,” said the middy, turning quickly round, and regarding with some anxiety the unusually solemn visage of Peter the Great.
“Wheder dere’s anyfing wrong or not, ’snot for me to say, massa, but I t’ink dere’s suffin’ up, for she seems in a carfuffle.”
“Tell her I shall be with her instantly.” Completing his toilet hastily, our hero repaired to his mother’s apartment, where he found her seated in dishabille with an open letter in her hand, and some excitement in her face.
“Is Laronde better this morning?” she asked as her son sat down on a sofa at the foot of her bed.
“I don’t know, mother—haven’t been to his room this morning. Why do you ask? Has anything happened?”
“I will tell you presently, but first let me know what success you have had in your search.”
“Nothing but failure,” said the middy, in a desponding tone. “If there had been anything good to tell you I would have come to your room last night despite the lateness of the hour. We were later than usual in arriving because a trace broke, and after that one of the horses cast a shoe.”