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Tom, he was a great favourite in our kitchen, because he sung the best song, and told the merriest tale, and paid his card money the most freely of any gentleman footman about town. And then he swore so much like a gentleman, and was so complaisant to the ladies, and pushed about the strong beer so merrily, that he was, said our servants, the most agreeable company in the world. And yet all these entertaining qualities did not preserve my poor brother from the most dreadful state of distress and ruin. One morning he came to me about ten o'clock with a very woeful face, which was a thing very unusual for him, and told me, that he had just been turned away from his place without a character, that he had no money, many debts, and no real friends, and what was worse than all, that he was labouring under disease.
Tom grew worse every day, and was at length given over. In the morning of that day, while I was sitting at his bedside, who should come in but my dear mother. She had walked 130 miles, except now and then a lift in the waggon, to attend upon her undeserving son. When she saw him, pale and emasciated, and his face half consumed by disease, it so shocked her, that she fainted away. As soon as she recovered, and was a little relieved by a plentiful flood of tears, she said, 'My dear Tom, I am come to take care of thee, and make thee better, if I can.' 'Alas! mother (answered he, putting his clay cold hand into hers) it is all too late. I have but a few, hours to live. It is by neglecting your advice
