Next morning Mrs. Little gave her son the benefit of her night's reflections.  
“You must let me have some money—all you can spare from your business; and whilst I am doing something with it for you, you must go to London, and do exactly what I tell you to do.”
 
“Exactly? Then please write it down.”
 
“A very good plan. Can you go by the express this morning?”
 
“Why, yes, I could; only then I must run down to the works this minute and speak to the foreman.”
 
“Well, dear, when you come back, your instructions shall be written, and your bag packed.”
 
“I say, mother, you are going into it in earnest. All the better for me.”
 
At twelve he started for London, with a beautiful set of carving-tools in his bag, and his mother's instructions in his pocket: those instructions sent him to a fashionable tailor that very afternoon. With some difficulty he prevailed on this worthy¹ to make him a dress-suit in twenty-four hours. Next day he introduced himself to the London trade, showed his carving-tools, and, after a hard day's work, succeeded in obtaining several orders.
 
Then he bought some white ties and gloves and an opera hat, and had his hair cut in Bond Street.
 
At seven he got his clothes at the tailor's, and at eight he was in the stalls of the opera. His mother had sent him there, to note the dress and public deportment of gentlemen and ladies, and use his own judgment². He found his attention terribly distracted by the music and the raptures³ it caused him; but still he made some observations; and, consequently, next day he bought some fashionable shirts and sleeve studs and ribbon ties; ordered a morning suit of the same tailor, to be sent to him at Hillsborough; and after canvassing⁴ for customers all day, telegraphed his mother, and reached Hillsborough at eleven P.M.
 
At first sight of him Mrs. Little exclaimed:
 
“Oh! What have you done with your beautiful hair?”
 
He laughed, and said this was the fashion.
 
“But it is like a private soldier.”
 
“Exactly. Part of the Volunteer movement, perhaps.”
 
“Are you sure it is the fashion, dear?”
 
“Quite sure. All the swells⁵ in the opera were bullet-headed just like this.”
 
“Oh, if it is the fashion!” said Mrs. Little; and her mind succumbed⁶ under that potent⁷ word.
 
She asked him about the dresses of the ladies in the opera.
 
His description was very lame⁸. He said he didn't know he was expected to make notes of them.
 
“Well, but you might be sure I should like to know. Were there no ladies dressed as you would like to see your mother dressed?”
 
“Good heavens, no! I couldn't fancy you in a lot of colors; and your beautiful head deformed⁹ into the shape of a gourd¹⁰, with a beast of a chignon stuck out behind, made of dead hair.”
 
“No matter. Mr. Henry; I wish I had been with you at the opera. I should have seen something or other that would have become me.” She gave a little sigh.
 
He was not to come home to dinner that day, but stay at the works, till she sent for him.
 
At six o'clock, Jael Dence came for him in a fly, and told him he was to go home with her.
 
“All right,” said he; “but how did you come there?”
 
“She bade me come and see her again—that day I brought the bust¹¹. So I went to see her, and I found her so busy, and doing more than she was fit, poor thing, so I made bold to give her a hand. That was yesterday; and I shall come every day—if 'tis only for an hour—till the curtains are all up.”
 
“The curtains! what curtains?”
 
“Ask no questions, and you will hear no lies.”
 
Henry remonstrated¹²; Jael recommended patience; and at last they reached a little villa¹³ half way up Heath Hill. “You are at home now,” said Jael, dryly. The new villa looked very gay that evening, for gas and fires were burning in every room.
 
The dining-room and drawing room were both on the ground-floor; had each one enormous window with plate glass, and were rooms of very fair size, divided by large folding-doors. These were now open, and Henry found his mother seated in the dining-room, with two workwomen, making curtains, and in the drawing-room were two more, sewing a carpet.
 
The carpet was down in the dining-room. The tea-table was set, and gave an air of comfort and housewifely foresight¹⁴, in the midst of all the surrounding confusion.
 
Young Little stared. Mrs. Little smiled.
 
“Sit down, and never mind us: give him his tea, my good Jael.”
 
Henry sat down, and, while Jael was making the tea, ventured on a feeble expostulation. “It's all very fine, mother, but I don't like to see you make a slave of yourself.”
 
“Slaving!” said Jael, with a lofty air of pity. “Why, she is working for her own.” Rural logic¹⁵!
 
“Oh,” said Mrs. Little to her, “these clever creatures we look up to so are rather stupid in some things. Slave! Why, I am a general leading my Amazons to victory.” And she waved her needle gracefully¹⁶ in the air.
 
“Well, but why not let the shop do them, where you bought the curtains?'
 
“Because, my dear, the shop would do them very badly, very dearly, and very slowly. Do you remember reading to me about Caesar, and what he said—'that a general should not say to his troops “GO and attack the enemy,” “but COME and attack the enemy”?' Well, that applies to needle-work. I say to these ladies, 'COME sew these curtains with me;' and the consequence is, we have done in three days what no shop in Hillsborough would have done for us in a fortnight; but, as for slaves, the only one has been my good Jael there. She insisted on moving all the heavy boxes herself. She dismissed the porter; she said he had no pith in his arms—that was your expression, I think?”
 
“Ay, ma'am; that was my word: and I never spoke¹⁷ a truer; the useless body. Why, ma'am, the girls in Cairnhope are most of them well-grown hussies, and used to work in the fields, and carry full sacks of grain up steps. Many's the time I have RUN with a sack of barley¹⁸ on my back: so let us hear no more about your bits of boxes. I wish my mind was as strong.”
 
“Heaven forbid!” said Mrs. Little, with comic fervor¹⁹. Henry laughed. But Jael only stared, rather stupidly. By-and-by she said she must go now.
 
“Henry shall take you home, dear.”
 
“Nay, I can go by myself.”
 
“It is raining a little, he will take you home in the cab.”
 
“Nay, I've got legs of my own,” said the rustic²⁰.
 
“Henry, dear,” said the lady, quietly, “take her home in the cab, and then come back to me.”
 
At the gate of Woodbine Villa, Jael said “it was not good-night this time; it was good-by: she was going home for Patty's marriage.”
 
“But you will come back again?” said Henry.
 
“Nay, father would be all alone. You'll not see me here again, unless you were in sorrow or sickness.”
 
“Ah, that's like you, Jael. Good-by then, and God bless you wherever you go.”
 
Jael summoned all her fortitude²¹, and shook hands with him in silence. They parted, and she fought down her tears, and he went gayly home to his mother. She told him she had made several visits, and been cordially received. “And this is how I paved the way for you. So, mind! I said my brother Raby wished you to take his name, and be his heir; but you had such a love of manufactures and things, you could not be persuaded to sit down as a country gentleman. 'Indeed,' I said, his 'love of the thing is so great that, in order to master it in all its branches, nothing less would serve him than disguising himself, and going as a workman. But now,' I said, 'he has had enough of that, so he has set up a small factory, and will, no doubt, soon achieve a success.' Then I told them about you and Dr. Amboyne. Your philanthropic views did not interest them for a single moment; but I could see the poor dear doctor's friendship was a letter of introduction. There will be no difficulty, dear. There shall be none. What society Hillsborough boasts, shall open its arms to you.”
 
“But I'm afraid I shall make mistakes.”
 
“Our first little parties shall be given in this house. Your free and easy way will be excused in a host; the master of the house has a latitude²²; and, besides, you and I will rehearse. By the way, please be more careful about your nails; and you must always wear gloves when you are not working; and every afternoon you will take a lesson in dancing with me.”
 
“I say, mother, do you remember teaching me to dance a minuet, when I was little?”
 
“Perfectly. We took great pains; and, at last, you danced it like an angel. And, shall I tell you, you carry yourself very gracefully?—well, that is partly owing to the minuet. But a more learned professor will now take you in hand. He will be here tomorrow at five o'clock.”
 
Mrs. Little's rooms being nearly square, she set up a round table, at which eight could dine. But she began with five or six.
 
Henry used to commit a solecism or two. Mrs. Little always noticed them, and told him. He never wanted telling twice. He was a genial²³ young fellow, well read in the topics of the day, and had a natural wit; Mrs. Little was one of those women who can fascinate when they choose; and she chose now; her little parties rose to eight; and as, at her table, everybody could speak without rudeness to everybody else, this round table soon began to eclipse the long tables of Hillsborough in attraction.
 
She and Henry went out a good deal; and, at last, that which Mrs. Little's good sense had told her must happen, sooner or later, took place. They met.
 
He was standing²⁴ talking with one of the male guests, when the servant announced Miss Carden; and, whilst his heart was beating high, she glided²⁵ into the room, and was received by the mistress of the house with all that superabundant warmth which ladies put on and men don't: guess why?
 
When she turned round from this exuberant²⁶ affection, she encountered Henry's black eye full of love and delight, and his tongue tied, and his swarthy cheek glowing red. She half started, and blushed in turn; and with one glance drank in every article of dress he had on. Her eyes beamed pleasure and admiration²⁷ for a moment, then she made a little courtesy, then she took a step toward him, and held out her hand a little coyly.
 
Their hands and eyes encountered; and, after that delightful²⁸ collision, they were both as demure²⁹ as cats approaching cream.
 
Before they could say a word of any consequence, a cruel servant announced dinner, to the great satisfaction of every other soul in the room.
 
Of course they were parted at dinner-time; but they sat exactly opposite each other, and Henry gazed at her so, instead of minding his business, that she was troubled a little, and fain to look another way. For all that, she found opportunity once or twice to exchange thoughts with him. Indeed, in the course of the two hours, she gave him quite a lesson how to speak with the eye—an art in which he was a mere³⁰ child compared with her.
 
She conveyed to him that she saw his mother and recognized her; and also she hoped to know her.
 
But some of her telegrams puzzled him.
 
When the gentlemen came up after dinner, she asked him if he would not present her to his mother.
 
“Oh, thank you!” said he, naively³¹; and introduced them to each other.
 
The ladies courtesied with grace, but a certain formality, for they both felt the importance of the proceeding³², and were a little on their guard.
 
But they had too many safe, yet interesting topics, to be very long at a loss.
 
“I should have known you by your picture, Mrs. Little.”
 
“Ah, then I fear it must be faded since I saw it last.”
 
“I think not. But I hope you will soon judge for yourself.”
 
Mrs. Little shook her head. Then she said, graciously, “I hear it is to you I am indebted that people can see I was once—what I am not now.”
 
Grace smiled, well pleased. “Ah,” said she, “I wish you could have seen that extraordinary scene, and heard dear Mr. Raby. Oh, madam, let nothing make you believe you have no place in his great heart!”
 
“Pray, pray, do not speak of that. This is no place. How could I bear it?” and Mrs. Little began to tremble.
 
Grace apologized. “How indiscreet I am; I blurt³³ out every thing that is in my heart.”
 
“And so do I,” said Henry, coming to her aid.
 
“Ah, YOU,” said Grace, a little saucily³⁴.
 
“We do not accept you for our pattern, you see. Pray excuse our bad taste, Harry³⁵.”
 
“Oh, excuse ME, Mrs. Little. In some things I should indeed be proud if I could imitate him; but in others—of course—you know!”
 
“Yes, I know. My dear, there is your friend Mr. Applethwaite.”
 
“I see him,” said Henry, carelessly.
 
“Yes; but you don't see every thing,” said Grace, slyly.
 
“Not all at once, like you ladies. Bother my friend Applethwaite. Well, if I must, I must. Here goes—from Paradise to Applethwaite.”
 
He went off, and both ladies smiled, and one blushed; and, to cover her blush, said, “it is not every son that has the grace to appreciate his mother so.”
 
Mrs. Little opened her eyes at first, and then made her nearest approach to a laugh, which was a very broad smile, displaying all her white teeth. “That is a turn I was very far from expecting,” said she.
 
The ice was now broken, and, when Henry returned, he found them conversing³⁶ so rapidly and so charmingly, that he could do little more than listen.
 
At last Mr. Carden came in from some other party, and carried his daughter off, and the bright evening came too soon to a close; but a great point had been gained: Mrs. Little and Grace Carden were acquaintances now, and cordially disposed to be friends.
 
The next time these lovers met, matters did not go quite so smoothly³⁷. It was a large party, and Mr. Coventry was there. The lady of the house was a friend of his, and assigned Miss Carden to him. He took her down to dinner, and Henry sat a long way off but on the opposite side of the table.
 
He was once more doomed³⁸ to look on at the assiduities of his rival, and it spoiled his dinner for him.
 
But he was beginning to learn that these things must be in society; and his mother, on the other side of the table, shrugged³⁹ her shoulders to him, and conveyed by that and a look that it was a thing to make light of.
 
In the evening the rivals came into contact.
 
Little, being now near her he loved, was in high spirits, and talked freely and agreeably. He made quite a little circle round him; and as Grace was one of the party, and cast bright and approving eyes on him, it stimulated⁴⁰ him still more, and he became quite brilliant.
 
Then Coventry, who was smarting with jealousy⁴¹, set himself to cool all this down by a subtle cold sort of jocoseness⁴², which, without being downright rude, operates on conversation of the higher kind like frost on expanding buds. It had its effect, and Grace chafed⁴³ secretly, but could not interfere⁴⁴. It was done very cleverly. Henry was bitterly annoyed; but his mother, who saw his rising ire in his eye, carried him off to see a flowering cactus⁴⁵ in a hot-house that was accessible from the drawing-room. When she had got him there, she soothed⁴⁶ him and lectured him. “You are not a match for that man in these petty acts of annoyance⁴⁷, to which a true gentleman and a noble rival would hardly descend⁴⁸, I think; at all events, a wise one would not; for, believe me, Mr. Coventry will gain nothing by this.”
 
“Isn't driving us off the field something? Oh, for the good old days when men settled these things in five minutes, like men; the girl to one, and the grave to t'other.”
 
“Heaven forbid those savage⁴⁹ days should ever return. We will defeat this gentleman quietly, if you please.”
 
“How?”
 
“Well, whenever he does this sort of thing, hide your anger; be polite and dignified⁵⁰; but gradually drop the conversation, and manage to convey to the rest that it is useless contending against a wet blanket. Why, you foolish boy, do you think Grace Carden likes him any the better? Whilst you and I talk, she is snubbing him finely. So you must stay here with me, and give them time to quarrel. There, to lessen⁵¹ the penance⁵², we will talk about her. Last time we met her, she told me you were the best-dressed gentleman in the room.”
 
“And did she like me any better for that?”
 
“Don't you be ungracious, dear. She was proud of you. It gratified her that you should look well in every way. Oh, if you think that we are going to change our very natures for you, and make light of dress—why did I send you to a London tailor? and why am I always at you about your gloves?”
 
“Mother, I am on thorns.”
 
“Well, we will go back. Stop; let me take a peep fir............