“i wish to see no one!” exclaimed charles, as again a knock was heard at his door.

“will you not admit me?” said the voice of mr. ewart. in an instant the door was thrown open.

“i did not know that it was you, sir; but i might have guessed who was the only being likely to come near me.”

mr. ewart saw in a moment by the face of his pupil, as well as by the tone in which he spoke, that he was struggling—no, not struggling with, but rather overcome by his passions; and more grieved than displeased by the conduct of the boy, he led him quietly to a sofa, on which they both sat down together.

“i am sorry,” said mr. ewart, “that you left us so soon; your brother may be hurt by your absence.”

“oh, he’ll never miss me; he has plenty to take up his attention. aunt matilda will never let him out of her sight. miss clemmy will deck herself out even

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finer than usual to do honour to the lord of the castle. and of course he’ll be taken by all the flattery and fuss; he’ll believe all the nonsense of that worldly set; he’ll be everything now, and i shall be nothing, because he happened to be born a year before me. it’s very hard,” he added bitterly; “it’s very hard.”

“‘it’s very hard’ is one of the evil one’s favourite suggestions,” said mr. ewart; “its meaning was contained in the very first words which he ever uttered to a human ear. he would have persuaded eve that it was very hard that she might not eat of every fruit in the garden; and now, surrounded as we are with manifold blessings, it is his delight to point to the one thing denied, and still whisper, ‘it’s very hard to be kept from that which you so much desire.’”

“i cannot help feeling,” murmured charles; “things are so different now from what they were.”

“did you ever expect them to remain the same? did you suppose that your path would be always amongst flowers? are you not forgetting that you are a stranger and a pilgrim—the follower of a master who was a man of sorrows?”

charles sighed heavily, and looked down.

“how often have you repeated the lines—

‘the greatest evil we can fear,

is to possess our portion here!’

had you the power of choice, would you enjoy that

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portion in this life, were it even to bestow on you the crown of an emperor?”

“no,” replied charles, with emphasis.

“let me refer you to your favourite pilgrim’s progress. remember what christian beheld in the house of the interpreter—that which we constantly behold in daily life: passion demanding his treasure at once; patience waiting meekly for a treasure to come. which was the richest in the end?”

“you must not imagine that it was the sight of the dear old castle, and all that i have lost, that has made me feel in this way,” exclaimed charles. “you saw how cheerful i was not an hour ago, and i knew then that i was no longer lord fontonore.”

“yes; you had seen your cross, but you had not taken it up; you had not felt its weight. it is now that you must rouse up your courage.”

“what i feel,” exclaimed charles impetuously, “is contempt for the mean, heartless beings, who were all kindness to me when i bore a title, and now have turned round like weathercocks! i do not believe that even you can defend them.”

“i think that you may judge them hardly. you have too easily taken offence; you have made no allowance for their natural curiosity to see the hero of so romantic a tale as ernest’s. would not you yourself have felt eager to meet him?”

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charles admitted that perhaps he might have done so.

“you have taken passion and pride for your counsellors, dear charles: the one has blinded your eyes that you should not see the straight path; the other would bind your feet that you should not pursue it. and miserable counsellors have you found them both; they have inflicted on your heart more pain than the loss of both title and estate.”

“what would you have me do?” said charles, more quietly; for he felt the truth of the last observation.

“first, i would have you endeavour to bring yourself to be content to be of little importance. until your mind is in this state of submission, you will be like one with a wound which is being perpetually rubbed.

“secondly, i would have you seek your earthly enjoyment rather in beholding that of others, than in any pleasure that comes direct to yourself. thus, in one way, fontonore will be yours still.

“thirdly, i would have you prayerfully on the watch against the slightest feeling of jealousy towards ernest. never let your only brother think for one moment that you feel that he stands in your way.”

“oh, mr. ewart!” cried charles, starting to his feet, “how could you imagine such a thing?”

“it rests with you alone to prevent his thinking it, and you have made a bad beginning to-day.”

“i will go to ernest at once,” said the boy, “and

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help to show him over the place. he shall never say—he shall never think that i am envious of his prosperity.”

in truth, on that first evening of his arrival in the castle, ernest was not much to be envied. he was uneasy about his brother—uncomfortable with his new companions; one hearty grasp from the hand of charles, or approving word from his tutor, was worth all the smiles, and courtesies, and bows, which he knew had nothing to do with the heart. ernest felt himself out of his natural place, and was constantly afraid of saying or doing something that would shock the polished grandees around him. as far as speaking was concerned, he was indeed tolerably safe, for he scarcely opened his lips, which made his companions set him down as dull and stupid; but he had been accustomed for so short a time to the refinements of polished society, and was so likely, in his very anxiety to please, to forget even the hints that he had received from mr. ewart, that there was certainly some little danger of his doing something “shocking.” the presence of half-a-dozen footmen in gay liveries in the room, was a disagreeable piece of state to the young lord; so many eyes were turned upon him whenever he moved; there were so many listeners if he uttered a word!

ernest made the serious mistake of eating fish with a knife. the shocked look of his aunt made him sensible of his blunder, and covered his face with blushes.

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at another time, clementina pressed her lace handkerchief over her lips, to stifle her too evident inclination to titter, at the peasant-bred peer helping her to something from the dish before him with his own spoon. ernest was very glad when the dinner was over, which had lasted, indeed, nearly twice as long as any of which he had ever partaken before.

clementina at the piano.

after dinner, clementina was desired by her mother to go to the piano and play. she made so many excuses, said that she was tired, nervous, out of practice, that ernest, little practised in the ways of vanity fair, was inclined to beg that the young lady might be let off. great would have been her mortification had he done so, however—the girl was only refusing in order to be pressed; the virtue of sincerity, if she had ever possessed it, had all been frittered away by folly. she sat down to the instrument, determined to be admired; for admiration to her was as the very breath of life. she played what might be called a very brilliant piece—full of shakes, dashes, and runs, but with no melody at all. ernest, though fond of music, thought it certainly not pretty, and, had he been more at his ease, could hardly have helped laughing at the affected air of the young performer, and the manner in which she threw up her hands, and sometimes her eyes also, in the slower movements of the piece. every motion appeared to be studied: self was never for a moment forgotten. when

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the performance, rather to ernest’s relief, was concluded, with a satisfied look the stately mother turned to the young peer, and asked him if that was not a beautiful piece. “rather,” replied ernest, after a little hesitation,

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as much vexed with himself for saying so much as clementina was at his saying so little. charles, who was standing near, could not avoid laughing; and ernest read in the eyes of mrs. hope her unexpressed thought—“i have no patience for this low, ill-bred boor!”

with a secret feeling of constraint, mortification, and disappointment, poor ernest retired at night to his own room. two maids were preparing it as he entered, and he could not help overhearing the words of one of them,—

“’tis a pity that master charles was not the eldest son.”

“i’m sure that i think so!” ernest exclaimed, aloud, to the no small surprise of the girl who had uttered the observation.