and distant relative of his father, and it was from this he had determined, he told his father, to go to Cambridge and cut a dash there with the best of them.  He was now eighteen, and believed himself no inconsiderable personage, in which belief he was warmly encouraged by his mistaken father.  It was strange that, with such an income, he permitted the favourite residence of his mother and sister to be sold—­but so it was.  The generous feelings of his early childhood had been completely blunted, and to himself alone he intended to appropriate that fortune, when a portion would yet have removed many of Mrs. Greville’s anxious fears for the future.  Alfred intended, when he was of age, to be one of the first men of fashion; but he did not consider, that if he “cut a dash” at college, with the eclat he wished, that before three years had passed, he would not be much richer than he had been when the fortune was first left him.

“Mother, you will drive me from you,” he one day exclaimed, in passion, as she endeavoured to detain him.  “If you wish ever to see me, let me take my own way.  Advice I will not brook, and reproach I will not bear; if you love me, be silent, for I will not be governed.”

“Alfred, I will speak!” replied his almost agonized parent, urged on by an irresistible impulse.  “Child of my love, my prayers!  Alfred, I will not see you go wrong, without one effort, one struggle to guide you in the right path.  Alfred, I leave England—­my heart is bursting; for Mary’s sake alone I live, and if she be taken from me, Alfred, we shall never meet again.  My son, oh, if you ever loved me, listen to me now, they may be the last words you will ever hear from your mother’s lips.  I implore, I beseech you to turn from your evil courses, Alfred!” and she suddenly sunk at his feet, the mother before the son.  So devoted, so fervid was the love with which she regarded him, that had she been told, that to lure him to virtue her own life must be the forfeit, willingly at that moment would she have died.  She continued with an eloquence of such beseeching tenderness, it would have seemed none could have heard it unmoved.  “Alfred, your mother kneels to you, your own mother.  Oh, hear her; do not condemn her to wretchedness.  Let me not suffer more.  You have sought temptation; oh, fly from it; seek the companionship of those who will lead you to honour, not to vice.  Break from those connections you have weaved around you.  Turn again to the God you have deserted.  Oh, do not live as you have done; think on the responsibility each year increases.  My child, my beloved, in mercy refuse not your mother’s prayer! reject not my advice, Alfred!  Alfred!” and she clung to him, while her voice became hoarse with intense anguish.  “Oh, promise me to turn from your present life.  Promise me to think on my words, to seek the footstool of mercy, and return again to Him who has not forsaken you.  Promise me to live a better life; say you will be your mother’s