I think—­I mean, he told us—­that he had been in practice three or four years and that if he could have hoped to contend through three or four more, he would not have made the voyage on which he was bound.  But he had no fortune or private means, and so he was going away.  He had been to see us several times altogether.  We thought it a pity he should go away.  Because he was distinguished in his art among those who knew it best, and some of the greatest men belonging to it had a high opinion of him.

When he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with him for the first time.  She was a pretty old lady, with bright black eyes, but she seemed proud.  She came from Wales and had had, a long time ago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the name of Morgan ap-Kerrig—­of some place that sounded like Gimlet—­who was the most illustrious person that ever was known and all of whose relations were a sort of royal family.  He appeared to have passed his life in always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and a bard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer had sung his praises in a piece which was called, as nearly as I could catch it, Mewlinnwillinwodd.

Mrs. Woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her great kinsman, said that no doubt wherever her son Allan went he would remember his pedigree and would on no account form an alliance below it.  She told him that there were many handsome English ladies in India who went out on speculation, and that there were some to be picked up with property, but that neither charms nor wealth would suffice for the descendant from such a line without birth, which must ever be the first consideration.  She talked so much about birth that for a moment I half fancied, and with pain—­ But what an idle fancy to suppose that she could think or care what mine was!

Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but he was too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately to bring the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to my guardian for his hospitality and for the very happy hours—­he called them the very happy hours—­he had passed with us.  The recollection of them, he said, would go with him wherever he went and would be always treasured.  And so we gave him our hands, one after another—­at least, they did—­and I did; and so he put his lips to Ada’s hand—­and to mine; and so he went away upon his long, long voyage!

I was very busy indeed all day and wrote directions home to the servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books and papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, one way and another.  I was still busy between the lights, singing and working by the window, when who should come in but Caddy, whom I had no expectation of seeing!

“Why, Caddy, my dear,” said I, “what beautiful flowers!”

She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand.