Louis' School Days: A Story for Boys

Louis' School Days,

a story for boys.

By E. J. May

NEW-YORK:
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY.
1852.

Preface.

It was originally my intention to leave the child of my imagination to make its way where it would, without any letter of introduction in the form of the usual prefatory address to the reader; but having been assured that a preface is indispensable, I am laid under the necessity of formally giving a little insight into the character of the possible inmate of many a happy home.

Reader, the following pages claim no interest on the score of authenticity. They are no fiction founded on facts. They profess to be nothing but fiction, used as a vehicle for illustrating certain broad and fundamental truths in our holy religion.

It has often struck me, in recalling religious stories (to which I acknowledge myself much indebted), that many of them fell into an error which might have the effect of confusing the mind of a thinking child, namely, that of drawing a perfect character as soon as the soul has laid hold of Christ, without any mention of those struggles through which the Christian must pass, in order to preserve a holy consistency before men. This would seem to exclude the necessity of maintaining a warfare.

The doctrine I have endeavored to maintain in the following pages is, that man being born in “sin, a child of wrath,” has, by nature, all his affections estranged from God; that, when by grace, through faith in Christ, a new life has been implanted within him, his affections are restored to their rightful Lord, every thought and imagination is brought into captivity to the obedience of Christ; and his whole being longs to praise Him who has called him “out of darkness into light”—to praise Him “not only with his lips, but in his life.” Then commences the struggle between light and darkness, between the flesh and the spirit, between the old and new man; and the results of this conflict are seen in the outward conduct of the Christian soldier.

The character of the child of God does not essentially alter, but a new impulse is given him. Whatever good quality was in his natural state conspicuous in him, will, in a state of grace and newness of life, shine forth with double lustre; and he will find his besetting sin his greatest hindrance in pressing forward to the attainment of personal holiness. The great wide difference is, that he desires to be holy, and the Lord, who gives him this desire, gives him also the strength to overcome his natural mind; and the more closely he waits on his heavenly Father for His promised aid, the more holily and consistently he will walk; and when, through the deceits of his heart, the allurements of the world, or the temptations of Satan, he relaxes his vigilance, and draws less largely from the fountain of his strength, a sad falling away is the inevitable consequence. This warfare, this danger of backsliding, ends only with the life, when, and when only, he will be perfect, for he shall be like his Saviour.

As a writer for the young, I dare not plead even the humble pretensions of my little volume in deprecation of the criticism which ought to be the lot of every work professing to instruct others. In choosing the arena of a boy's school for the scene of my hero's actions, I have necessarily been compelled to introduce many incidents and phrases to which, perhaps, some very scrupulous critics might object as out of place in a religious work; but my readers will do well to recollect, that to be useful, a story must be attractive, and to be attractive, it must be natural; and I trust that they who candidly examine mine will find nothing therein that can produce a wrong impression. It has not been without an anxious sense of the great responsibility dependent on me in my present capacity, that this little effort has been made. Should it be the instrument of strengthening in one young one the best lessons he has received, it will, indeed, not have been in vain. To the service of Him who is the strength and help of all His people, it is dedicated.

“Be Thou alone exalted:

If there's a thought of favor placed on me—

Thine be it all!

Forgive its evil and accept its good—

I cast it at Thy feet.”

—E. J. M.

Chapter I.

Doleful were the accounts received from time to time of Louis Mortimer's life with his tutor at Dashwood Rectory; and, if implicit credence might be yielded to them, it would be supposed that no poor mortal was ever so persecuted by Latin verses, early rising, and difficult problems, as our hero. His eldest brother, to whom these pathetic relations were made, failed not to stimulate him with exciting passages of school life—and these, at last, had the desired effect, drawing from Louis the following epistle:

“My dear Reginald,

“Your letter was as welcome as usual. You cannot imagine what a treat it is to hear from you. Mr. Phillips is kind, but so very different from dear Mr. Daunton. What I dislike most is, that he says so often, ‘What did Mr. Daunton teach you? I never saw a boy so ignorant in my life!’ I do not care how much he says of me, but I cannot bear to hear him accuse dear Mr. Daunton of not teaching me properly. I believe I am really idle often, but sometimes, when I try most, it seems to give least satisfaction. The other day I was busy two hours at some Latin verses, and I took so much pains with them—I had written an ‘Ode to the Rising Sun,’ and felt quite interested, and thought Mr. Phillips would be pleased; but when I took it to him, he just looked at it, and taking a pen dashed out word after word, and said, so disagreeably, ‘Shocking! Shocking, Louis! Disgraceful, after all that I said yesterday—the pains that I took with you,’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ I said, ‘I tried a great deal,’ ‘Fine ideas! fine ideas! no doubt,’ he said, ‘but I have told you dozens of times that I do not want ideas—I want feet.’ I wish those same feet would run away to Clifton with me, Reginald; I hope I have not been saying any thing wrong about Mr. Phillips—I should be very sorry to do so, for he is very kind in his way: he tells me I do not know what I am wishing for, and that school will not suit me, and a great deal about my having to fag much harder and getting into disgrace; but never mind, I should like to make the experiment, for I shall be with you; and, dear as Dashwood is, it is so dull without papa and mamma—I can hardly bear to go into the Priory now they are away. I seem to want Freddy's baby-voice in the nursery; and sober Neville and Mary are quite a part of home—how long it seems since I saw them! Well, I hope I shall come to you at Easter. Do you not wish it were here? I had a nice letter from mamma yesterday—she was at Florence when she wrote, and is getting quite strong, and so is little Mary. I have now no more time; mamma said papa had written to you, or I would have told you all the news. I wanted to tell you very much how our pigeons are, and the rabbits, and Mary's hen, which I shall give in Mrs. Colthrop's care when I leave Dashwood. But good bye, in a great hurry. With much love, I remain your very affectionate brother,

“Louis Francis Mortimer.

“P.S. Do you remember cousin Vernon's laughing at our embrace at Heronhurst? I wonder when I shall have another—I am longing so to see you.”

It would not concern my readers much were I to describe the precise locality of the renowned Dr. Wilkinson's establishment for young gentlemen—suffice it to say, that somewhere near Durdham Down, within a short walk of Clifton, stood Ashfield House, a large rambling building, part of which looked gray and timeworn when compared with the modern school-room, and sundry dormitories, that had been added at different periods as the school grew out of its original domains. Attached to the house was a considerable extent of park land, which was constituted the general play-ground.

At the time of which I am writing, Dr. Wilkinson's school consisted of nearly eighty pupils, all of whom were boarders, and who were sent from different parts of the kingdom; for the doctor's fame, as an excellent man, and what, in the eyes of some was even a greater recommendation, as a first-rate classical scholar, was spread far and wide. At the door of this house, one fine April day, Louis presented himself; and, after descending from the vehicle which brought him from Bristol, followed the servant into the doctor's dining-room, where we will leave him in solitary grandeur, or, more correctly speaking, in agitating expectation, while we take a peep at the room on the opposite side of the hall. In this, Dr. Wilkinson was giving audience to a gentleman who had brought back his little boy a few minutes before Louis arrived. Having some private business to transact, the child was sent to the school-room, and then Mr. Percy entered into a discussion respecting the capabilities of his son, and many other particulars, which, however interesting to himself, would fail of being so to us.

At length these topics were exhausted, and it seemed nearly decided how much was to be done or discontinued in Master Percy's education. Mr. Percy paused to consider if any thing were left unsaid.

“Oh! by the by, Dr. Wilkinson,” he said, letting fall the pencil with which he had been tapping the table during his cogitations, “you have one of Sir George Vernon's grandsons with you, I believe?”

“Two of them,” replied the doctor.

“Ah! indeed, I mean young Mortimer, son of Mr. Mortimer of Dashwood.”

“I have his eldest son, and am expecting another to-day.”

“Then it was your expected pupil that I saw this morning,” said Mr. Percy.

“May I ask where?” said the doctor.

“At the White Lion. He came down by the London coach. I saw his trunk, in the first place, addressed to you, and supposed him to be the young gentleman who attained to some rather undesirable notoriety last year.”

“How so?” asked the doctor.

“Oh! he very ungenerously and artfully endeavored to retain for himself the honor of writing a clever little essay, really the work of his brother, and actually obtained a prize from his grandfather for it.”

“How came that about?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.

“Oh! there was some mistake in the first instance, I believe, and the mean little fellow took advantage of it.”

Mr. Percy then gave a detailed account of Louis' birthday at Heronhurst, and concluded by saying—

“I was not present, but I heard it from a spectator; I should be afraid that you will not have a little trouble with such a character.”

“It is extraordinary,” said the doctor; “his brother is the most frank, candid fellow possible.”

“I hear he is a nice boy,” said Mr. Percy. “There is frequently great dissimilarity among members of the same family; but of course, this goes no further. It is as well you should know it,—but I should not talk of it to every one.”

Dr. Wilkinson bowed slightly, and remained silent, without exhibiting any peculiar gratification at having been made the depository of the secret. Mr. Percy presently rose and took his leave; and Dr. Wilkinson was turning towards the staircase, when a servant informed him that a young gentleman waited to see him in the dining-room.

“Oh!” said the doctor to himself, “my dilatory pupil, I presume.”

He seemed lost in thought for a minute, and then slowly crossing the hall, entered the dining-room.

Louis had been very anxious for the appearance of his master, yet almost afraid to see him; and when the door opened, and this gentleman stood before him, he was seized with such a palpitation as scarcely to have the power of speech.

Dr. Wilkinson was certainly a person calculated to inspire a school-boy with awe. He was a tall, dignified man, between fifty and sixty years of age, with a magnificent forehead and good countenance: the latter was not, however, generally pleasing, the usual expression being stern and unyielding. When he smiled, that expression vanished; but to a new-comer there was something rather terrible in the compressed lips and overhanging eyebrows, from under which a pair of the keenest black eyes seemed to look him through.

Louis rose and bowed on his master's entrance.

“How do you do, Mortimer?” said the doctor, shaking hands with him. “I dare say you are tired of waiting. You have not seen your brother, I suppose?”

“No, sir,” replied Louis, looking in the stern face with something of his customary simple confidence. Doctor Wilkinson smiled, and added, “You are very like your father,—exceedingly like what he was at your age.”

“Did you know him then, sir?” asked Louis, timidly.

“Yes, as well as I hope to know you in a short time. What is your name?”

“Louis Francis, sir.”

“What! your father's name—that is just what it should be. Well, I hope, Louis, you will now endeavor to give him the utmost satisfaction. With such a father, and such a home, you have great privileges to account for; and it is your place to show to your parents of what use their care and instruction have been. In a large school you will find many things so different from home, that, unless you are constantly on your guard, you will often be likely to do things which may afterwards cause you hours of pain. Remember that you are a responsible creature sent into the world to act a part assigned to you by your Maker; and to Him must the account of every talent be rendered, whether it be used, or buried in the earth. As a Christian gentleman, see, Louis, that you strive to do your part with all your might.”

Dr. Wilkinson watched the attention and ready sympathy with his admonition displayed by Louis; and in spite of the warning he had so lately received, felt very kindly and favorably disposed towards his new pupil.

“Come with me,” he said, “I will introduce you to your school-fellows; I have no doubt you will find your brother among them somewhere.”

Louis followed Dr. Wilkinson through a door at the further end of the hall, leading into a smaller hall which was tapestried with great-coats, cloaks, and hats; and here an increasing murmur announced the fact of his near approach to a party of noisy boys. As the doctor threw open the folding-doors leading into the noble school-room, Louis felt almost stupefied by the noise and novelty. A glass door leading into the play-ground was wide open, and, as school was just over, there was a great rush into the open air. Some were clambering in great haste over desks and forms; and the shouting, singing, and whistling, together with the occasional overthrow of a form, and the almost incessant banging of desk-lids, from those who were putting away slates and books, formed a scene perfectly new and bewildering to our hero.

The entrance of Dr. Wilkinson stilled the tumult in a slight degree, and in half a minute after, the room was nearly cleared, and a passage was left for the new-comers towards the upper end. Here was a knot of great boys (or, rather, craving their pardon, I should say young men), all engaged in eager and merry confabulation. So intent were they that their master's approach was wholly unnoticed by them. One of these young gentlemen was sitting tailor fashion on the top of a desk, apparently holding forth for the edification of his more discreet companions, to whom he seemed to afford considerable amusement, if the peals of laughter with which his sallies were received might be considered any proof. A little aloof from this party, but within hearing, stood a youth of about seventeen, of whom nothing was remarkable, but that his countenance wore a very sedate and determined expression. He seemed struggling with a determination not to indulge a strong propensity to laugh; but, though pretending to be occupied with a book, his features at length gave way at some irresistible sally, and throwing his volume at the orator, he exclaimed—

“How can you be such an ass, Frank!”

“There now,” said Frank, perfectly unmoved, “the centre of gravity is disturbed,—well, as I was saying,—Here's the doctor!” and the young gentleman, who was no other than Frank Digby, brother of Louis' cousin Vernon, dismounted from his rostrum in the same instant that his auditors turned round, thereby acknowledging the presence of their master.

“I have brought you a new school-fellow, gentlemen,” said the doctor; “where is Mortimer?”

“Here, sir,” cried Reginald, popping up from behind a desk, where he had been pinned down by a short thick-set boy, who rose as if by magic with him.

“Here is your brother.”

Louis and Reginald scrambled over all obstacles, and stood before the doctor, in two or three seconds.

In spite of Louis' valiant protestations the preceding mid-summer at Heronhurst, he did not dare, in the presence of only a quarter of the hundred and twenty eyes, to embrace his brother, but contented himself with a most energetic squeeze, and a look that said volumes; and, indeed, it must be confessed, that Reginald was not an inviting figure for an embrace; for, independently of a rough head, and dust-bedecked garments, his malicious adversary had decorated his face with multitudinous ink-spots, a spectacle which greatly provoked the mirth of his laughter-loving school-fellows.

Dr. Wilkinson made some remark on the singularity of his pupil's appearance, and then, commending Louis to the kind offices of the assembled party, left the room.

He had scarcely closed the door behind him, when several loiterers from the lower part of the room came up; and Reginald and his brother were immediately assailed with a number of questions, aimed with such rapidity as to be unanswerable.

“When did you come?” “Who's that, Mortimer?” “Is that your brother?” “What's his name?” “Shall you be in our class?” “Why didn't you stay longer in Bristol?—If I had been you I would!”

Louis was amused though puzzled, and turned first one way, and then another, in his futile attempts to see and reply to his interrogators.

“Make way!” at last exclaimed Frank Digby; “you are quite embarrassing to her ladyship. Will the lady Louisa take my arm? Allow me, madam, to interpose my powerful authority.” And he offered his arm to Louis with a smirk and low bow, which set all the spectators off laughing; for Frank was one of those privileged persons, who, having attained a celebrity for being very funny, can excite a laugh with very little trouble.

“Don't, Frank!” said Reginald.

“Don't! really, Mr. Mortimer, if you have no respect for your sister's feelings, it is time that I interposed. Here you allow this herd of I don't know what to call them, to incommode her with their senseless clamor. I protest, she is nearly fainting; she has been gasping for breath the last five minutes. Be off, ye fussy, curious, prying, peeping, pressing-round fellows; or, I promise you, you shall be visited with his majesty's heaviest displeasure.”

“How do you do, lady Louisa? I hope your ladyship's in good health!” “Don't press on her!” was now echoed mischievously in various tones around Louis, whose color was considerably heightened by this unexpected attack.

“Now do allow me,” persisted Frank, dragging Louis' hand in his arm, in spite of all the victim's efforts to prevent it, and leading him forcibly through the throng, which made way on every side, to Edward Hamilton, the grave youth before mentioned:—“His majesty is anxious to make the acquaintance of his fair subject. Permit me to present to your majesty the lovely, gentle, blushing lady Louisa Mortimer, lately arrived in your majesty's kingdom; your majesty will perceive that she bears loyalty in her—hey! what! excited!—hysterics!”

The last exclamations were elicited by a violent effort of Louis to extricate himself.

“Frank, leave him alone!”

“What is the will of royalty?” said Frank, struggling with his refractory cousin.

“That you leave Louis Mortimer alone,” said Hamilton. “You will like us better presently, Louis,” added he, shaking hands with him: “my subjects appear to consider themselves privileged to be rude to a new-comer; but my royal example will have its weight in due time.”

“Your majesty's faithful trumpeter, grand vizier, and factotum is alive and hearty,” said Frank.

“But as he had a selfish fit upon him just now,” returned Hamilton, “we were under the necessity of doing our own business.”

“I crave your majesty's pardon,” said Frank, stroking his sovereign tenderly on the shoulder; for which affectionate demonstration he was rewarded by a violent push that laid him prostrate.

“I am a martyr to my own benevolence,” said Frank, getting up and approaching Louis, “still I am unchanged in devotion to your ladyship. Tell me what I can do,”—and whichever way Louis turned, Frank with his smirking face presented himself;—“Will you not give your poor slave one command?”

“Only that you will stand out of my sunshine,” said Louis good-temperedly.

“Very good,” exclaimed Hamilton.

“Out of your sunshine! What, behind you? that is cruel, but most obsequiously I obey.”

Louis underwent the ordeal of a new scholar's introduction with unruffled temper, though his cousin took care there should be little cessation until afternoon school, when Louis was liberated from his tormentors to his great satisfaction—Frank's business carrying him to a part of the school-room away from that where Louis was desired to await further orders. In the course of the afternoon, he was summoned to the presence of Dr. Wilkinson, who was holding a magisterial levee in one of two class-rooms or studies adjoining the school-room. The doctor appeared in one of his sternest humors. Besides the fourteen members of the first class, whose names Louis knew already, there was in this room a boy about Louis' age, who seemed in some little trepidation. Doctor Wilkinson closed the book he held, and laying it down, dismissed his pupils; then turning to the frightened-looking boy, he took a new book off the table, saying, “Do you know this, Harrison?”

“Yes, sir,” faintly replied the boy.

“Where did you get it?”

“I bought it.”

“To assist you in winning prizes from your more honorable class-fellows, I suppose,” said the doctor, with the most marked contempt. “Since you find Kenrick too difficult for you, you may go into the third class, where there may be, perhaps, something better suited to your capacity; and beware a second offence: you may go, sir.”

Louis felt great pity for the boy, who turned whiter still, and then flushed up, as if ready to burst into tears.

“Well, Louis, I wish to see what rank you will be able to take,” said the doctor, and he proceeded with his examination.

“Humph!” he ejaculated at length, “pretty well—you may try in the second class. I can tell you that you must put your shoulder to the wheel, and make the most of your powers, or you will soon be obliged to leave it for a less honorable post; but let me see what you can do—and now put these books away on that shelf.” As he spoke, the doctor pointed to a vacant place on one of the shelves that lined two sides of the study, and left the room. Louis put the books away, and then returned to the school-room, where he sought his brother, and communicated his news just before the general uproar attendant on the close of afternoon school commenced.

Reginald was one of the most noisy and eager in his preparations for play; and, dragging Louis along with him, bounded into the fresh air, with that keen feeling of enjoyment which the steady industrious school-boy knows by experience.

“What a nice play-ground this is!” said Louis.

“Capital!” said Reginald. “What's the fun, Frank?” he cried to his cousin, who bounded past him at this moment, towards a spot already tolerably crowded.

“Maister Dunn,” shouted Frank.

“Oh, the old cake-man, Louis,” said Reginald; “I must go and get rid of a few surplus pence.”

“Do you like to spend your money in cakes?” asked Louis; “I have plenty, Mrs. Colthrop took care of that.”

“In that case I'll save for next time,” said Reginald, “but let's go and see what's going on.”

Accordingly Reginald ran off in the cake-man's direction. Louis followed, and presently found himself standing in the outer circle of a group of his school-fellows, who formed a thick wall round a white-haired old man and a boy, both of whom carried a basket on each arm, filled with dainties always acceptable to a school-boy's palate.

Maister Dunn.

Were I inclined to moralize, I might here make a few remarks on waste of money, &c., but my business being merely to relate incidents at present, I shall only say that there they stood, the old man and his assistant, with the boys in constant motion and murmur around them.

Frank Digby and Hamilton were in the outer circle, the latter having walked from a direction opposite to that from which Frank and Reginald came, but whose dignity did not prevent a certain desire to purchase if he saw fit, and if not, to amuse himself with those who did so. He stood watching the old man with an imperturbable air of gravity, and, hanging on his arm in a state of listless apathy, stood Trevannion, another member of the first class.

Frank Digby took too active a share in most things in the establishment to remain a passive spectator of the actions of others, and began pushing right and left. “Get along, get away ye vagabonds!” he politely cried: “you little shrimps! what business have you to stop the way?—Alfred, you ignoramus! Alfred, why don't you move?”

“Because I'm buying something,” said the little boy addressed, looking up very quietly at the imperious intruder.

“Da locum melioribus, Alfred, as the poet has it. Do you know where to find that, my boy?—the first line of the thirteenth book of the Æneid, being a speech of the son of Anchises to the Queen of Carthage. You'll find a copy of Virgil's works in my desk.”

“I don't mean to look,” said Alfred, “I know it's in the Delectus.”

“Wonderful memory!—I admire that delectable book of yours,” cried Frank, who talked on without stopping, while forcing himself to the first rank. “How now, Maister Dunn!” he said, addressing the old man, “I hope you b'aint a going to treat us as e did last time. You must be reasonable; the money market is in a sadly unflourishing condition at present.”

“You always talk of the money market, Frank,” said little Alfred: “what do you mean by the money market?”

“It's a place, my dear—I'll explain it in a moment. Here, Maister Dunn;—It's a place where the old women sell sovereigns a penny a measure, Alfred.”

“Oh, Frank!” exclaimed Alfred.

“Oh! and why not?” said Frank; “do you mean to say you don't believe me? That's it,—isn't it, maister?”

“Ah, Maister Digby! ye're at yer jokes,” said the old man.

“Jokes!” said Frank, with a serious air. “Pray, Mr. Dunn, did you ever happen to notice certain brass, or copper, or bronze tables, four in number, in front of the Bristol Exchange!”

“Ay sure, maister!”

“Well, I'll insense you into the meaning of that, presently. That, my good sir, is where the old women stood in the good old times, crying out, ‘Here you are! sovereigns a penny a measure!’ And that's the reason people used to be so rich!”

“Oh, Frank! now I know that's only your nonsense,” said Alfred.

“Well, I can't give you a comprehension, and if I could buy you one, I couldn't afford it,” answered Frank. “Now here's my place for any one; Louis, I'll make you a present of it, as I don't want it.”

“I don't want to buy any thing,” said Louis.

“Rubbish!” cried Frank. “Every one does. Don't be stingy.” And so Louis allowed himself to be pushed and pulled into the crowd, and bought something he would much rather have been without, because he found it inconvenient to say no.

The two upper classes were privileged to use the largest of the class-rooms as their sitting-room in the evenings; and here Reginald introduced his brother after tea; and, when he had shown him his lessons, began to prepare his own. Most of the assembled youths were soon quietly busy, though some of the more idly disposed kept up a fire of words, while turning over leaves, and cutting pens to pieces. Among the latter class was Frank Digby, who was seldom known to be silent for a quarter of an hour, and who possessed the singular power of distracting every one's attention but his own; for, though he scarcely ever appeared to give his lessons a moment's attention, he was generally sufficiently prepared with them to enable him to keep his place in his class, which was usually two from the bottom.

Louis saw that he must give his whole mind to his work; but being unused to study in a noise, it was some time before he was well able to comprehend what he wanted to do; and found himself continually looking up and laughing at something around him, or replying to some of Frank's jokes, which were often directed to him. When, by a great exertion, he had at last forced himself to attend to Reginald's repeated warnings, and had begun to learn in earnest, the door softly opened, and the little boy he had noticed in the crowd that afternoon came in.

“Halloa! what do you want?” cried one of the seniors; “you have no business here.”

“Is Edward here, Mr. Salisbury?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he is, please?”

“With the doctor,” replied the young gentleman.

“Oh dear!” sighed the little boy, venturing to approach the table a little nearer.

“What's the matter with you?” asked Reginald.

“I can't do this,” said the child: “I wanted Edward to help me with my exercise.”

“My little dear, you have just heard that sapient Fred Salisbury declare, in the most civil terms chooseable, that your fraternal preceptor, Edwardus magnus, non est inventus,” said Frank, pompously, with a most condescending flourish of his person in the direction of the little boy.

“And, consequently,” said the afore-mentioned Mr. Salisbury, “you have free leave to migrate to York, Bath, Jericho, or any other equally convenient resort for bores in general, and you in particular.”

“Please, Mr. Digby,” said the little boy, “will you just show me this?”

“Indeed I can't,” said Frank; “I can't do my own, so in all reason you could not expect me to find brains for two exercises.”

“Oh! please somebody show me—Dr. Wilkinson will be so angry if Mr. Norton sends me up again to-morrow.”

“Will you go?” shouted Salisbury, with such deliberate energy of enunciation that Alfred shrunk back: “what's the use of your exercises, if you're shown how to do them?”

“Come here, Alfred,” said Louis, softly. Alfred readily obeyed; and Louis, taking his book, began to show him what to do.

“Louis, you must not tell him word for word,” said Reginald: “Hamilton wouldn't like it—he never does himself.”

“But I may help him to do it for himself, may I not?” said Louis.

“Yes; but, Louis, you have not time—and he is so stupid,” replied Reginald; “you won't have time to do your own.”

But Louis thought he should have time for both, and, putting his arm round Alfred, he kindly and patiently set him in the way of doing his lesson properly, and then resumed his own disturbed studies.

Hardly, however, was he settled than he found himself listening to Frank, who remarked, as Alfred left the room, “We shall be sure to have ‘Oars’ in soon!”

“Who do you mean by Oars?” asked Louis.

“Churchill,” said Reginald, laughing.

“What an extraordinary name!” said Louis.

“I say, Digby,” cried a boy from the opposite side of the table, “they give you the credit of that cognomen—but we are all in the dark as to its origin.”

“Like the origin of all truly great,” answered Frank, “it was very simple: Churchill came one day to me with his usual ‘Do tell us a bit, that's a good fellow,’ and after he had badgered me some minutes, I asked him if he had not the smallest idea of his lesson—so, after looking at it another minute, he begins thus, ‘Omnes, all.’ ‘Bravo!’ replied I. ‘Conticuere—What's that, Frank?’ ‘Were silent,’ I answered: ‘Go on.’ After deep cogitation, and sundry hints, he discovered that tenebant must have some remote relationship to a verb signifying to hold fast, and forthwith a bright thought strikes him, and on we go: ‘Intentique ora tenebant—and intently they hold their oars,’ he said, exultingly. ‘Very well,’ quoth I, approvingly, and continued for him, ‘Inde toro pater—the waters flowed glibly farther on, ab alto—to the music of the spheres; the inseparable Castor and Pollux looking down benignantly on their namesake below.’ Here I was stopped by the innocent youth's remark, that I certainly was quizzing, for he knew that Castor and Pollux were the same in Latin as in English. Whereupon, I demanded, with profound gravity, whether gemini did not mean twins, and if the twins were not Castor and Pollux—and if he knew (who knew so much better than I) whether or no there might not be some word in the Latin language, besides gemini, signifying twins; and that if it was his opinion that I was quizzing, he had better do his lesson himself. He looked hard, and, thinking I was offended, begged pardon; and believing that jubes was Castor and Pollux, we got on quite famously—and he was quite reassured when we turned from the descriptive to the historical, beginning with Æneas sic orsus infandum—Æneas was such a horrid bear.”

“Didn't you tell him of his mistake?” asked Louis, who could not help laughing.

“What! spoil the fun and the lesson I meant to give him?—not I.”

“Well, what then, Frank?” said Reginald.

“Why, imagine old Whitworth's surprise, when, confident in the free translation of a first-class man, Oars flowed on as glibly as the waters; Whitworth heard him to the end in his old dry way, and then asked him where he got that farrago of nonsense;—I think he was promoted to the society of dunces instanter, and learns either Delectus or Eutropius now. Of course, he never applied again to me.”

Louis did not express his opinion that Frank was ill-natured, though he thought so, in spite of the hearty laugh with which his story was greeted. When he turned again to his lesson, he found his book had been abstracted.

“I tell you what,” cried Reginald, fiercely, “I won't have Louis tormented—who has taken his book? It's you, Ferrers, I am sure.”

“I! did you ever!” replied that young gentleman. “I appeal to you, Digby—did you see me touch his book?”

“I did not, certainly,” said Frank.

“Give me the book,” exclaimed Reginald, jumping upon the table, “give me the book, and let's have no more such foolery.”

“Get down, Mortimer, you're not transparent,” cried several voices.

Reginald, however, paid no attention to the command, but pouncing upon Ferrers at a vantage, threw him backwards off the form, tumbling over his prostrate foe, and in his descent bringing down books, inkstand, papers, and one of the candles, in glorious confusion.

“What's the row!” exclaimed Salisbury, adding an expression more forcible than elegant; and, starting from his seat, he pulled Reginald by main force from his adversary, with whom he was now struggling on the floor, and at the same instant the remaining candle was extinguished. Louis was almost stunned by the noise that ensued: some taking his brother's part, and some that of Ferrers, while, in the dark, friend struggled and quarrelled with friend as much as foe, no one attempting to quell the tumult, until the door was suddenly burst open, and Hamilton with Trevannion and two or three from the school-room entered. Hamilton stood still for a moment, astonished by the unlooked-for obscurity. His entrance checked the combatants, who at first imagined that one of their masters had made his appearance, if that could be said to appear which was hardly discernible in the dim light which came through the half-open door. Hamilton begged one of the boys with him to fetch a light, and taking advantage of the momentary lull, he called out, “Is this Bedlam, gentlemen? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! What's the matter, Mortimer?”

“Oh!” replied Ferrers, “they've been teasing his little brother, and he can't abide it.”

“I only mean to say, that Louis shan't be plagued in this manner,” cried Reginald, passionately; “and you know if the others were not here you wouldn't dare to do it, you bully!”

“For shame, Mortimer,” said Hamilton, decidedly; and coming up to Reginald he drew him a little aside, not without a little resistance on Reginald's part—“What's the matter, Mortimer?”

“Matter! why that they are doing all they can to hinder Louis from knowing his lessons to-morrow. I won't stand it. He has borne enough of it, and patiently too.”

“But is that any reason you should forget that you are a gentleman?” said Hamilton.

“My book is here, dear Reginald,” said Louis, touching his brother's shoulder.

Reginald darted a fierce glance at Ferrers, but not being able to substantiate an accusation against him, remained silent, and, under the eye of Hamilton and his friend Trevannion, the remainder of the evening passed in a way more befitting the high places in the school which the young gentlemen held; but Louis had been so much interrupted, and was so much excited and unsettled by the noise and unwonted scenes, that when Dr. Wilkinson came at nine to read prayers, he had hardly prepared one of his lessons for the next day.

Chapter II.

Louis soon made himself a universal favorite among his school-fellows; and, though he was pronounced by some to be a “softy,” and by others honored by the equally comprehensive and euphonious titles of “spooney” and “muff,” there were few who were not won by his gentle good-nature, and the uniform good temper, and even playfulness, with which he bore the immoderate quizzing that fell to his lot, as a new boarder arrived in the middle of the half-year. If there were an errand to be run among the seniors, it was, “Louis Mortimer, will you get me this or that?” if a dunce wanted helping, Louis was sure to be applied to, with the certainty in both cases that the requests would be complied with, though they might, as was too often the case, interfere with his duties; but Louis had not courage to say no.

In proportion, however, as our hero grew in the good graces of his school-fellows, he fell out of those of his masters, for lessons were brought only half-learned, and exercises only half-written, or blotted and scrawled so as to be nearly unintelligible; and after he had been a fortnight at school, he seemed much more likely to descend to a lower class than to mount a step in his own. Day after day saw Louis kept in the school-room during play-hours, to learn lessons which ought to have been done the night before, or to write out some long imposition as a punishment for some neglected duty that had given place to the desire of assisting another.

Louis always seemed in a hurry, and never did any thing well. His mind was unsettled, and, like every thing else belonging to him at present, in a state of undesirable confusion.

There was one resource which Louis had which would have set all to rights, but his weakness of disposition often prevented him from taking advantage of even the short intervals for prayer allowed by the rules of the school, and he was often urged at night into telling stories till he dropped asleep, and hurried down by the morning bell, before he could summon up courage to brave the remarks of his school-fellows as to his being so very religious, &c., and sometimes did not feel sorry that there was some cause to prevent these solemn and precious duties. I need not say he was not happy. He enjoyed nothing thoroughly; he felt he was not steadily in earnest. Every day he came with a beating heart to his class, never certain that he could get through a single lesson.

One morning he was endeavoring to stammer through a few lines of some Greek play, and at last paused, unable to proceed.

“Well, sir,” said his master quietly,—“as usual, I suppose—I shall give you only a few days' longer trial, and then, if you cannot do better, you must go down.”

“Who is that, Mr. Danby?” said a voice behind Louis, that startled him, and turning his blanched face round, he saw Dr. Wilkinson standing near. “Who is that, Mr. Danby?” he repeated, in a deep stern voice.

“Louis Mortimer, sir,” replied Mr. Danby. “Either he is totally unfit for this class, or he is very idle; I can make nothing of him.”

Dr. Wilkinson fixed his eyes searchingly on Louis, and replied, in a tone of much displeasure:

“If you have the same fault to find the next two days, send him into a lower class. It is the most disgraceful idleness, Louis.”

Louis' heart swelled with sorrow and shame as the doctor walked away. He stood with downcast eyes and quivering lids, hardly able to restrain his tears, until the class was dismissed, and he was desired to stay in and learn his unsaid lesson.

Reginald followed his brother into the study, where Louis took his books to learn more quietly than he could do in the school-room.

“My dear Louis,” he said, “you must try; the doctor will be so displeased if you go into a lower class; and just think what a disgrace it will be.”

“I know,” said Louis, wiping his eyes: “I can't tell how it is, every thing seems to go wrong with me—I am not at all happy, and I am sure I wish to please everybody.”

“A great deal too much, dear Louis,” said Reginald. “You are always teaching everybody else, and you know you have scarcely any time for yourself. You must tell them you won't do it; I can't be always at your elbow; I've quarrelled more with the boys than ever I did, since you came, on your account.”

“Oh dear! I am sorry I came,” sighed Louis, “I do so long to be a little quiet. Reginald, dear, I am so sorry I should give you any trouble. Oh, I have lost all my happy thoughts, and I know every thing is sure to go wrong.”

Louis remained sadly silent for a few minutes, and then, raising his tearful eyes to his brother, who was sitting with his chin on his hands, watching him, he begged him to leave him, declaring he should not learn any thing while Reginald was with him.

Thus urged, Reginald took his departure, though, with his customary unselfish affection, he would rather have stayed and helped him.

When he was gone, Louis began slowly to turn over the leaves of his Lexicon, in order to prepare his lesson. He had not been long thus employed, when he was interrupted by the irruption of the greatest dunce in the school, introduced to the reader in the former chapter as Churchill, alias Oars, a youth of fifteen, who had constant recourse to Louis for information. He now laid his dog's-eared Eutropius before Louis, and opened his business with his usual “Come now, tell us, Louis—help us a bit, Louis.”

“Indeed, Harry, it is impossible,” said Louis sorrowfully. “I have all my own to do, and if I do not get done before dinner I shall go into the third class—no one helps me, you know.”

“It won't take you a minute,” said Churchill.

“It does take much more. You know I was an hour last night writing your theme; and, Churchill, I do not think it is right.”

“Oh stuff! who's been putting that nonsense into your head?” replied Churchill. “It's all right and good, and like your own self, you're such a good-natured fellow.”

“And a very foolish one, sometimes,” said Louis. “Can't you get somebody else to show you?”

“Goodness gracious!” cried Churchill, “who do you think would do it now? and no one does it so well as you. Come, I say—come now—that's a good fellow,—now do.”

“But how is it that you want to learn your lesson now,” asked Louis? “Won't the evening do?”

“No; Dr. Wilkinson has given me leave to go out with my uncle this afternoon, if I learn this and say it to old Norton before I go; and I am sure I shan't get it done if you don't help me.”

“I cannot,” said poor Louis.

“Now I know you're too good-natured to let me lose this afternoon's fun. Come, you might have told me half.”

And against his better judgment, Louis spent half an hour in hearing this idle youth a lesson, which, with a little extra trouble he might easily have mastered himself in three quarters of an hour.

“Thank you, Louis, you're a capital fellow; I know it now, don't I?”

“I think so,” replied Louis; “and now you must not talk to me.”

“What are you doing?” said Churchill, looking at his book; “oh, ‘Kenrick's Greek Exercises.’ If I can't tell you, I can help you to something that will. Here's a key.” As he spoke, he took down the identical book taken from Harrison on the day of Louis' arrival, and threw it on the table before him.

“Is that a key?” asked Louis, opening the book; “put it back, Harry, I cannot use it.”

“Why not?”

“It would not be right. Oh no! I will not, Churchill; put it up.”

“How precise you are!” said Churchill; “it's quite a common thing for those who can get them—Thompson and Harcourt always use one.”

“Thompson ought to be ashamed of himself,” cried Louis, “to be trying for a prize, and use a key.”

“Well, so he ought, but you won't get a prize if you begin now, and try till breaking-up day; so you hurt nobody, and get yourself out of a scrape. Don't be a donkey, Louis.”

When Churchill left him alone Louis looked at the title-page, and felt for an instant strongly tempted to avail himself of the assistance of the book; but something checked him, and he laid his arms suddenly on the table, and buried his face on them. A heavy hand laid on his shoulder roused him from this attitude; and looking up, with his eyes full of tears, he found Hamilton and Trevannion standing beside him.

“What's the matter, Louis?” said the former.

“I have so much to do;—I—I've been very careless and idle,” stammered Louis.

“I can readily believe that,” said Hamilton.

“A candid confession, at any rate,” remarked Trevannion.

“And do you imagine that your brains will be edified by coming in contact with these books?” asked Hamilton. “What have you to do?”

“I have this exercise to re-write, and my Greek to learn,—and—and—twenty lines of Homer to write out. I can't do all now—I shall have to stay in this afternoon.”

“I should think that more than probable,” said Trevannion.

“What have we here?” said Hamilton, taking up the key. “Hey! what! Louis! Is this the way you are going to cheat your masters?”

“Pray don't think it?” said Louis, eagerly.

“If you use keys, I have done with you.”

“Indeed I did not,—I never do,—I wasn't going. One of the boys left it here. I am sure I did not mean to do so,” cried Louis in great confusion.

“Put it back,” said Hamilton, gravely, “and then I will go over your lessons with you, and see if I can make you understand them better.”

“Thank you, thank you,—how kind you are!” said poor Louis, who hastily put the dangerous book away, and then sat down.

Hamilton smiled, and remarked, “It is but fair that one should be assisted who loses his character in playing knight errant for all those who need, or fancy they need, his good services: but, Louis, you are very wrong to give up so much of your time to others; your time does not belong to yourself; your father did not send you here to assist Dr. Wilkinson—or, rather, I should say, to save a set of idle boys the trouble of doing their own work. There is a vast difference between weakness and good-nature; but now to business.”

Trevannion withdrew with a book to the window, and Hamilton sat down by Louis, and took great pains to make him give his mind to his business; and so thoroughly did he succeed with his docile pupil, that, although he had come in rather late, all, with the exception of the imposition, was ready for Mr. Danby by the time the dinner-bell rang.

Louis overwhelmed Hamilton with the expression of his gratitude, and again and again laid his little hand on that of his self-instituted tutor. Hamilton did not withdraw his hand, though he never returned the pressure, nor made any reply to Louis' thanks, further than an abrupt admonition from time to time to “mind what he was about,” and to “go on.”

Several inquiries were made at the open window after Louis, but all were answered by Trevannion, and our hero was left undisturbed to his studies.

That evening Louis had the satisfaction of being seated near his friend Hamilton, who, with a good-natured air of authority, kept him steadily at work until his business was properly concluded. Unhappily for Louis, Hamilton was not unfrequently with the doctor in the evenings, or he might generally have relied on his protection and assistance: however, for the next two or three days, Louis steadily resisted all allurements to leave his own lesson until learned; and, in consequence, was able to report to Hamilton the desirable circumstance of his having gained two places in his class.

Chapter III.

For some time before Louis' arrival at Ashfield House, preparations had been making in the doctor's domestic ménage for the approaching marriage of Miss Wilkinson, the doctor's only daughter. The young gentlemen had, likewise, their preparations for the auspicious event, the result of which was a Latin Epithalamium, composed by the seniors, and three magnificent triumphal arches, erected on the way from the house-door to the gate of the grounds. Much was the day talked of, and eagerly were plans laid, both by masters and pupils, for the proper enjoyment of the whole holiday that had been promised on the occasion, and which, by the way—whatever young gentlemen generally may think of their masters' extreme partiality for teaching—was now a greater boon to the wearied and over-fagged ushers, than to the party for whose enjoyment it was principally designed.

The bridal day came.—No need to descant on the weather. The sun shone as brightly as could be desired, and as the interesting procession passed under the green bowers, cheer after cheer rose on the air, handfuls of flowers were trodden under the horses' feet, and hats, by common consent, performed various somersaults some yards above their owners' heads.

There was a long watch till the carriages returned, and the same scene was enacted and repeated, when the single vehicle rolled away from the door; and the last mark of honor having been paid, the party dispersed over the large playground, each one in search of his own amusement. Louis wandered away by himself, and enjoyed a quiet hour unmolested, and tried, with the help of his little hymn-book, and thinking over old times, to bring back some of his former happy thoughts. There were more than ordinary temptations around him, and he felt less able to resist them; and this little rest from noise and hurry was to him very grateful. When, at length, a little party found out his retreat and begged him to join in a game of “hocky,” he complied with a light and merry heart, freer from that restless anxiety to which he had been lately so much subject.

In the afternoon, determining to let nothing interfere with the learning of his lessons, Louis sat down in the school-room to business. There were but two persons besides himself in the room, one of whom was an usher, who was writing a letter, and the other, his school-fellow Ferrers. The latter was sitting on the opposite side of the same range of desks Louis had chosen, very intently engaged in the same work which had brought Louis there.

Louis felt very happy in the consciousness that he was foregoing the pleasure of the merry playground for the stern business that his duty had imposed on him; and the noise of his companions' voices, and the soft breezes that came in through the open door leading into the playground, only spurred him on to finish his work as quickly as possible.

Ferrers and his younger vis-à-vis pursued their work in silence, apparently unconscious of the presence of each other, until the former, raising his head, asked Louis to fetch him an atlas out of the study.

“With pleasure,” said Louis, jumping up and running into the study; he returned almost immediately with a large atlas, and laid it down on Ferrers' books. He had once more given his close attention to his difficult exercises, when a movement from his companion attracted his notice.

“Did you speak?” he said.

“Will you—oh, never mind, I'll do it myself,” muttered Ferrers, rising and going into the class-room himself.

Louis had become again so intent upon his study, that he was hardly aware of the return of his school-fellow, nor did he notice the precipitation with which he hurried into his place, and half hid the book he had brought with him, a book that he imagined to be a key to his exercises, but which, in fact, was a counterpart to that taken away from Harrison, though bound exactly like the one Ferrers had gone for, and so nearly the same size as easily to be mistaken for it in the confusion attendant on the abstraction of it.

Just at this moment, Hamilton, Trevannion, and Salisbury, with one or two more of the first class, entered from the playground, and walked directly across to Ferrers.

Alive to all the disgrace of being found by his class-fellows in possession of a key, and unable to return it unobserved, Ferrers, in the first moment of alarm, tried to push it into the desk at which he was writing, but finding it locked, he stood up with as much self-possession as he could assume, and pretending to be looking among his books and papers, managed, unobserved, to pass the obnoxious volume over to Louis' heap of books, laying it half under one of them. Louis was wholly unconscious of the danger so near him, and did not raise his held from his absorbing occupation when the fresh comers approached the desk.

“Ferrers,” said Salisbury, as they came up, “we want your advice on a small matter; come with us into the class-room.”

Accordingly Ferrers obeyed, glad to leave the dangerous spot, and Louis was left in undisturbed possession of the apartment for more than half an hour, at the end of which time the party returned from the inner room laughing, and all walked out of doors. Just as they passed out, Mr. Witworth, the usher, approached Louis, and asked him if he could lend him a pencil. Louis laid his pen down, and began to search his pockets for a pencil he knew should be there, when he was startled by the ejaculation of the master:

“Hey!—what!—This is it, is it? So I have found you out, sir.”

Louis looked up in alarm. “Found me out, sir?” he said, in a terrified tone: “what have I done?”

“Done!” exclaimed Mr. Witworth,—“done, indeed: what are you doing there?”

“My exercise, sir.”

“To be sure, to be sure. What's the meaning of this, sir?” and he held up the key. “What have you done, indeed!—you hoped that it was nicely concealed, I dare say. I wonder how you can be so artful.”

“I am sure I don't know any thing about that book,” said Louis, in great agitation.

“Admirably acted,” said Mr. Witworth. “It wouldn't walk here, however, Master Mortimer: some one must have brought it.”

“I am sure I don't know who did—I don't indeed,” said poor Louis, despairingly.

“Perhaps you'll try to make me believe you don't know what it is, and that you never saw the book before,” remarked Mr. Witworth, scornfully.

“I do know what it is, but I never used it, I do assure you, sir, and I did not bring it here. Will you not believe me?”

“It is very likely that I should believe you, is it not? Well, sir, this book goes up with you to-morrow to Dr. Wilkinson, and we shall see how much he will believe of your story. This accounts for your apparent industry lately.” So saying, Mr. Witworth walked off with the book in his hand, leaving Louis in the greatest distress.

“And all my pains are quite lost!” he exclaimed, as he burst into tears. “The doctor is sure not to believe me, and there will be—oh, who could have left it there?”

“Louis, are you coming out this afternoon; what's the matter?” exclaimed the welcome voice of his brother.

“What, Lady Louisa in tears! Here's the ink bottle; do let me catch the crystal drops,” said Frank Digby, who accompanied Reginald in search of his brother.

“Oh, Reginald!” exclaimed Louis, regardless of Frank's nonsense, “some one has left a key to my exercises on my books, and Mr. Witworth has just found it. What shall I do?”

“Some one has left,” ejaculated Frank. “That's a good story, Louis; only one can't quite swallow it, you know. Who would leave it, eh?”

“How? where, Louis?” said Reginald.

“It was just here it was found. I am sure I cannot think who put it there.”

“Well of all the”—began Frank; “my astonishment positively chokes me. Louis, are you not ashamed of yourself?”

“Oh, Frank! I am speaking the truth; I am, indeed, I am—Reginald, I am, you know I am.”

“It is very strange,” remarked Reginald, who was standing with a clouded, unsatisfied brow, and did not exhibit that enthusiasm respecting his innocence which Louis expected from him. Reginald knew too much, and dared not yet be certain when appearances were so sadly against him.

“Reginald, dear Reginald, tell me,” cried Louis, almost frantically; “surely you believe me?”

“Believe you!” echoed Frank, scornfully; “he knows you too well, and so do I. Remember last year, Louis: you'd better have thought of it sooner.”

Reginald cast a threatening glance on his cousin, who undauntedly replied to it.

“You can't gainsay that, at any rate, Reginald.”

“Reginald, dear Reginald,” cried Louis, with streaming eyes, “you know I always spoke the truth to you; I declare solemnly that I am speaking only the truth now.”

Reginald looked gloomily at his brother.

“Indeed it is. If you will not believe me, who will?”

“Who, indeed?” said Frank.

“I do believe you, Louis,” said Reginald, quickly, “I do believe you; but this matter must be sifted. It is very strange, but I will make all the inquiries I can. Who sat with you?”

“Ferrers was sitting there,” replied Louis.

“Any one else?”

“No,” replied Louis.

“I'll answer for it, it was Ferrers,” said Reginald.

“A likely story,” said Frank.

“I think it very likely,” said Reginald, firmly, “and woe be to him if he has.”

As he finished speaking, Reginald ran off in search of Ferrers, whom he found in a group of the head boys, into the midst of which he burst without the smallest ceremony.

“Manners!” exclaimed Hamilton; “I beg your pardon, Mr. Mortimer, for standing in your way.”

“I am very sorry,” said Reginald, bluntly, “but I can't stand upon ceremony. Ferrers, what have you been doing with Kenrick's Exercises—I mean the key to it?”

“I!” cried Ferrers, reddening violently; “what—what do you mean, Mortimer?”

“You have left the key on Louis' desk, to get him into a scrape—you know you have.”

“Upon my word, Mortimer! what next!” exclaimed Salisbury. “Who do you think would fash themselves about such a little hop-o'-my-thumb?”

“Will you let Ferrers answer!” cried Reginald, imperiously.

Unconscious of the mistake he had made, Ferrers felt exceedingly uncomfortable in his present position, and, assuming an air of contemptuous indignation, he turned his back on Reginald, saying as he did so, “Such impertinence merits nothing but silent contempt.”

“You did it, you coward!” cried Reginald, enraged almost beyond control. “I know you did, and you know you did. Will you answer me?”

“Answer him, Ferrers, answer him at once, and let us have an end of his impertinence,” cried several voices: “he's like a wild-cat.”

“Well then, I did not,” said Ferrers, turning round with a violent effort; “will that satisfy you?”

Reginald glared angrily and doubtfully on the changing countenance of the speaker, and then burst out vehemently,

“I don't believe a word you say: you did it either to spite him, or you mistook your aim. Do you never use keys, Mr. Ferrers?”

“Really, Mortimer!” exclaimed Trevannion, “your language is very intemperate and ungentlemanly. I have no doubt your brother knows how to help himself; and now, for your comfort, know that I saw him the other day with that same book, and here is Hamilton, who can corroborate my statement.”

“Where? when?” asked Reginald, in a subdued tone.

“In the class-room alone, when he was writing his exercise. Hamilton, am I not right?”

Hamilton nodded.

“Dr. Wilkinson will do justice to-morrow,” said Reginald, as after a moment's painful silence he looked up with assumed confidence, and turned proudly away from Ferrers' reassured look of exultation, though the latter hardly dared exult, for he thought Reginald had mistaken the book, and feared the suspicions that might rest on himself when it should be discovered that it was not a second-class key. “And now, Mortimer, let's have no more of this violent language,” said Hamilton. “If the matter is to come before the doctor, he will do all justice; let him be sole arbitrator; but I would not bring it before him were I in your place. Make an apology to Ferrers, and say nothing more. You will do your brother more harm than good.”

“Make an apology,” said Reginald, ironically; “I haven't changed my mind yet. It must come before the doctor. Mr. Witworth found the book, and has carried it by this time, or certainly will carry it, to head-quarters.”

“Come along with me, and tell me the whole affair,” said Hamilton.

While Reginald was unfolding the matter to Hamilton, the party they had left was reinforced by Frank Digby, who warmly took Ferrers' part, and enlightened the company as to many particulars of his cousin's former character: and so much was said about the injury Reginald had done to Ferrers by his suspicions, that when that youth discovered the certainty of the mistake he had made, he was so far involved as to render it impossible to him to acknowledge that even out of a spirit of teasing he had placed the book near Louis; and his anxiety was so great to free himself from any suspicion, that he was selfishly and ungenerously insensible to the trouble entailed upon Louis, whom he disliked on account of his superiority to himself, but on whom he had not seriously contemplated inflicting so great an injury—so imperceptibly does one fault lead to another, so unable are we to decide where the effects of one false step, one dishonest thought, shall end.

The story was soon spread among Louis' immediate companions, who were anxious to learn the cause of his swollen eyes and sad demeanor, and Louis had to endure many sneers, and, what was still harder to bear, much silent contempt from those whose high sense of honor made them despise any approach to the meanness of which he was supposed guilty. Hamilton, though in the study the whole evening, took no notice of him, and when his eyes met Louis', they bore no more consciousness of his presence than if he had been a piece of stone. Frank Digby did not tease Louis, but he let fall many insinuations, and a few remarks so bitter in their sarcasm, that Reginald more than once looked up with a glance so threatening in its fierceness, that it checked even that audacious speaker. Even little Alfred was not allowed to sit with Louis; though Hamilton made no remark, nor even alluded to the subject to his brother, he called him immediately to himself, and only allowed him to leave him at bed-time.

As the elder boys went up stairs to bed, Frank continued his aggravating allusions to Louis' weakness, but in so covert a manner, that no one but those acquainted with Louis' former history could have understood their import. For some time Reginald pretended not to hear them; there was a strong struggle within him, for his high spirit rose indignantly at his cousin's unkindness, yet was for some time checked by a better feeling within; but, at length, on Frank's making some peculiarly insulting remark in a low tone, his pent-up ire boiled forth, and, in the madness of his fury, he seized on his cousin with a strength that passion rendered irresistible. “You've tried to provoke me to this all the evening—you will have it, you dastardly coward! you will have it, will you?”

These exclamations were poured forth in a shout, and Reginald, after striking his cousin several violent blows, threw him from him with such force that his head struck against the door-post, and he fell motionless to the ground, the blood streaming from a wound in his forehead.

There was an awful silence for a minute. The boys, horror-struck, stood as if paralyzed, gazing on the inanimate form of their school-fellow. Reginald's passion subsided in an instant; his face turned pale, the color fled from his lips, and clasping his hands in terror, he muttered, “Oh! what have I done!” and then there was a shout, “Oh, Frank Digby's killed! Digby's killed—he's dead!”

Hamilton at length pushed forward and raised Frank's head. And at this moment Mr. Norton and Dr. Wilkinson, with two or three of the servants, came from different directions. The crowd round Frank made way for the doctor, who hurriedly approached, and assisted Hamilton to raise Frank and carry him to his bed.

“He's dead, he's dead!” cried the boys all round.

“How did this happen?” asked the doctor, and without waiting for an answer he tore open the handkerchief and collar of the insensible youth, and dispatched some one immediately for a medical man. One was sent for a smelling-bottle, another for some water, and Mrs. Wilkinson soon made her appearance with a fan, and other apparatus for restoring a fainting person. But it was long before there were any signs of returning life. It was a terrible time for Reginald. It was agony to look on the motionless form, and blood-streaked countenance before him—to watch the cloud of anxiety that seemed to deepen on his master's face as each new restorative failed its accustomed virtue,—to listen to the subdued murmurs and fearful whispers, and to note the blanched faces of his school-fellows. He stood with clasped hands, and there was a prayer in his heart that he might not be called to suffer so very deeply for this sinful expression of his temper. What if he should have sent his cousin unprepared into eternity? Oh, what would he give to see one motion; what, that he had been able to restrain his ungovernable fury! There was almost despair in his wild thoughts, when at last Frank sighed faintly, and then opened his eyes. He closed them immediately, and just then the surgeon arriving, more potent remedies were used, and he was at length restored to consciousness, though unable to speak aloud. Doctor Wilkinson had him removed to another room, and after seeing him comfortably arranged, returned to Reginald's bedroom.

“Now, how did this happen?” he said.

No one spoke, and the silence was only broken by the sound of sobs from the further end of the room.

“Who did this?” asked the doctor again.

“I did, sir,” said Reginald, in a broken voice.

“Come forward. Who is it that speaks?” said Doctor Wilkinson. “Mortimer! is this some passion of yours that has so nearly caused the death of your cousin? I am deeply grieved to find that your temper is still so ungovernable. What was the matter?”

Reginald was incapable of answering, and none of his companions understood the quarrel; so Doctor Wilkinson left the room, determined to make a strict investigation the next morning.

Poor Reginald was almost overwhelmed: he knelt with his brother after their candle was extinguished, by their bedside, and both wept bitterly, though quite silently. Distress at his own fault, and his brother's new trouble, and deep thankfulness that his cousin was alive, and not dangerously hurt, filled Reginald's mind, and kept him awake long after all besides in the room were asleep.

Chapter IV.

The next morning, after the early school-hours, Doctor Wilkinson kept Reginald back as he was following the stream to breakfast, and led the way into the class-room, where, after closing the door, he seated himself, and motioning Reginald to draw closer to him, thus opened his inquiry.

“I wish to know, Mortimer, how this affair began last night: it appears, from all I can make out, to have been a most unprovoked attack on your part, but as there is often more than appears on the surface, I shall be glad to hear what you have to allege in extenuation of your savage conduct.”

Reginald colored very deeply, and dropping his eyes under the piercing gaze of his master, remained silent.

“Am I to conclude from your silence that you have no excuse to make?” asked the doctor in a tone of mixed sorrow and indignation; “and am I to believe that from some petty insult you have allowed your temper such uncontrolled sway as nearly to have cost your cousin his life?”

“I had very great provocation,” said Reginald, sullenly.

“And what might that be?” asked his master. “If the wrong be on Digby's side, you can have no hesitation in telling me what the wrong was.”

Reginald made no answer, and, after a pause, Dr. Wilkinson continued: “Unless you can give me some reason, I must come to the conclusion that you have again given way to your violent passions without even the smallest excuse of injury from another. The assertion that you have been ‘provoked’ will not avail you much: I know that Digby is teasing and provoking, and is therefore very wrong, but if you cannot bear a little teasing, how are you to get on in the world? You are not a baby now, though you have acted more like a wild beast than a reasonable creature. I am willing and desirous to believe that something more than usual has been the cause of this ebullition of temper, for I hoped lately that you were endeavoring to overcome this sad propensity of yours.”

“I assure you, sir,” said Reginald, raising his open countenance to his master's, “I tried very much to bear with Frank, and I think I should if he had not said so much about—about—”

Here Reginald's voice failed; a sensation of choking anger prevented him from finishing his sentence.

“About what?” said the doctor, steadily.

“About my brother,” said Reginald, abruptly.

“And what did he say about your brother that chafed you so much?”

Reginald changed color, and his eyes' lighted up with passion. He did not reply at first, but as his master seemed quietly awaiting his answer, he at length burst out,—

“He had been going on all the afternoon about Louis: he tried to put me in a passion; he said all he could—every thing that was unkind and provoking, and it was more than a fellow could stand. I bore it as long as I could—”

“You are giving me a proof of your gentle endurance now, I suppose,” said the doctor.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I can't help it,—I feel so angry when I think of it, that I am afraid I should knock him down again if he were to repeat it.”

“For shame, sir!” said the doctor, sternly; “I should have thought that you had already had a lesson you would not easily have forgotten. What did he say of your brother that irritated you? I insist upon knowing.”

“He said Louis was—that Louis did not speak the truth, sir. He said that I believed it—that I believed it”—and Reginald's passionate sobs choked his utterance.

“Believed what?” asked the doctor.

“Something that happened yesterday,” said Reginald; “he said that—he was a hypocrite, and he went on taunting me about last summer.”

“About last summer!” repeated the doctor.

“Yes, sir—about a mistake. Nobody makes allowances for Louis. I could have borne it all if he had not said that I knew Louis was a liar. I'd knock any one down that I was able who should say so! Indeed,” continued Reginald, fiercely, “I begged him to leave off, and not provoke me, but he would have it, and he knew what I was.”

“Enough—enough—hush,” said Dr. Wilkinson: “I beg I may hear no more of knocking down. Don't add to your fault by working yourself into a passion with me. Some provocation you certainly have had, but nothing can justify such unrestrained fury. Consider what would have been your condition at present, if your rage had been fatal to your cousin; it would have availed you little to have pleaded the aggravation; your whole life would have been embittered by the indulgence of your vengeful feelings—one moment have destroyed the enjoyment of years. Thank God, Mortimer, that you have been spared so terrible a punishment. But you will always be in danger of this unless you learn to put a curb on your hasty temper. The same feelings which urge you into a quarrel as a boy, will hurry you into the duel as a man. It is a false spirit of honor and manliness that makes you so ready to resent every little insult. In the life of the only perfect Man that ever lived, our great Example and Master, we do not see this impatience of contradiction: ‘When He was reviled, He reviled not again;’ and if He, the Lord of all, could condescend to endure such contradiction of sinners against Himself, shall it be too much for us to bear a little with the contradiction of our fellow-creatures? My boy, if we do not strive to bear a little of the burden and heat of the day, we are not worthy to bear the noble name of Christians.”

“I am very sorry, sir,” said Reginald, quite softened by the earnest manner of his master; “I am very sorry I have been so hasty and wrong. I dare not make any promises for the future, for I know I cannot certainly keep them, but, with God's help, I hope to remember what you have so kindly said to me.”

“With His help we may do all things,” said Dr. Wilkinson; “you may by this help overcome the stumbling-stone of your violent passions, which otherwise may become an effectual barrier in the way of your attaining the prize of eternal life; and remember that ‘he that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.’ ”

There was a minute's silence, which Reginald broke by asking if he might attend on Frank until he was well.

“Can I hope that you will be gentle,” said the doctor; “that you will remember he is in invalid—one of your making, Mortimer; and that if he is impatient and fretful, you are the cause?”

“I will try, sir, to make amends to him,” said Reginald, looking down; “I hope I may be able to be patient.”

“I will give orders that you may go to him,” said the doctor; and after a pause, he added, “another offence of this kind I shall visit with the heaviest displeasure. I am in hopes that the anxiety you have undergone, and the present state of your cousin, may be a lesson to you; but if I find this ineffectual, I shall cease to consider you a reasonable creature, and shall treat you accordingly.”

Dr. Wilkinson then rose and left the room. Reginald lingered a few minutes to compose himself before joining his school-fellows; his heart was very full, and he felt an earnest desire to abide by his master's counsel, as well as grateful for the leniency and kindness with which he had been treated, which made him feel his fault much more deeply than the severest punishment.

The breakfast time was very unpleasant for Louis that morning; he was full of anxiety as to the result of Mr. Witworth's discovery, and his sickness of heart entirely deprived him of appetite. When the meal was dispatched, Reginald went off to Frank, whom he found in a darkened room, very restless and impatient. He had passed a very bad night, and was suffering considerable pain. Reginald had to endure much ill-nature and peevishness; all of which he endeavored to bear with gentleness, and during the time Frank was ill, he gave up all his play-hours to wait on him and to amuse him as he grew better; and the exercise of patience which this office entailed was greatly beneficial to his hasty and proud spirit.

Mr. Danby was in the midst of the second-class lessons that morning, when one of the first class brought him a little slip of paper. Mr. Danby glanced at the few words written thereon, and when the class had finished he desired Louis to go to Dr. Wilkinson. All remnant of color fled from Louis' cheek, though he obeyed without making any reply, and with a very sinking heart entered the room where the doctor was engaged with the first class. The keen eye of his master detected him the instant he made his appearance, but he took no notice of him until he had finished his business; then, while his pupils were putting up their books he turned to Louis, and pointing to a little table by his side, said, “There is a volume, Louis Mortimer, with which I suspect you have some acquaintance.”

Louis advanced to the table, and beheld the Key to Kenrick's Greek Exercises.

“You know it?” said the doctor.

“Yes, sir, but I did not use it,” said Louis.

“You will not deny that it was found among your books in the school-room,” said the doctor.

“I know, sir, Mr. Witworth found it, but I assure you I did not put it there,” replied Louis, very gently.

“Have you never used it at all?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.

“Never, sir,” replied Louis, firmly.

At this moment, he met the eye of Hamilton, who was standing near Dr. Wilkinson, and who looked very scornfully and incredulously at him as he paused to hear the result of the inquiry. Louis remembered that Hamilton had seen the key Churchill had left, and he hastily exclaimed, “I assure you, Mr. Hamilton, I did not.”

“What is this, Hamilton?” said Dr. Wilkinson, turning round. “Do you know any thing of this matter?”

“I would much rather not answer,” said Hamilton, abruptly, “if you will excuse me, sir.”

“I must, however, beg that you will, if you please,” replied the doctor.

“I really know nothing positively, I can say nothing certainly. You would not wish, sir, that any imagination of mine should prejudice you to Louis Mortimer's disadvantage; I am not able to say any thing,” and Hamilton turned away in some confusion, vexed that he should have been appealed to.

Dr. Wilkinson looked half perplexed—he paused a moment and fixed his eyes on the table. Louis ventured to say, “Mr. Hamilton saw a book once before with my lesson books, but I never used it.”

“What do you mean by saw a book?” asked the doctor. “What book did Mr. Hamilton see? How came it there, and why was it there?”

“It was ‘Kenrick's Greek Exercises,’ sir.”

“You mean the ‘Key,’ I suppose?”

Louis answered in the affirmative.

“Whose was it?” asked the doctor, with a countenance more ominous in its expression.

“It was the one you took from Harrison, sir,” replied Louis.

“Humph! I thought I took it away. Bring it here.” Louis obeyed, and the doctor having looked at it, continued, “Well, you had this with your lesson books, you say. How did it come there?”

“One of the boys gave it to me, sir,” replied Louis.

“And why did you not put it away?”

“I was going, sir;” and the color rushed into Louis' pale face. “I did not use it—and I hope I should not.”

“Who left the book?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.

“Churchill, sir.”

“Call Churchill, Salisbury.”

Salisbury obeyed; and during his absence a profound silence reigned in the room, for all the first class were watching the proceedings in deep interest. Dr. Wilkinson seemed lost in thought; and Louis, in painful anxiety, scanned the strongly marked countenance of his master, now wearing its most unpleasing mask, and those of Hamilton and Trevannion, alternately. Hamilton did not look at him, but bent over a table at a book, the leaves of which he nervously turned. Trevannion eyed him haughtily as he leaned in his most graceful attitude against the wall behind the doctor's chair; and poor Louis read his condemnation in his eyes, as well as in the faces of most present.

Salisbury at length returned with Churchill, who was the more awe-struck at the unwonted summons, as he was so low in the school as seldom to have any business with the principal.

“Churchill,” said the doctor, gravely, “I have sent for you to hear what is said of you. Now, Louis Mortimer, who gave you this book on the day Mr. Hamilton discovered it in your possession?”

“Churchill, sir,” replied Louis, in great agitation; “you did, Churchill, did you not? Oh! do say you did.”

“Hush,” said the doctor. “What have you to say against this, Churchill?”

“Nothing, sir—I did—I gave it to Louis Mortimer,” stammered Churchill, looking from Louis to the doctor, and back again.

“And how came you to give it to him?”

Churchill did not reply until the question was repeated, when he reluctantly said, he had given it to Louis to assist him in his exercise.

“Did Mortimer ask you for it?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he wish for it?”

“No, sir, not that I know of.”

“You know, Harry, that I asked you to put it away—did I not?” cried Louis.

“I don't know—yes—I think you did,” said Churchill, growing very hot.

“Why did you not put it away?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.

“Because I thought he wanted it, please sir.”

“But I did not, Harry! I told you I did not,” said Louis, eagerly.

Dr. Wilkinson desired Louis to be silent, and continued his questions—

“Did you try to persuade him to use it?”

Again Churchill paused, and again confessed, most unwillingly, that he had done so—and received a severe reprimand for his conduct on the occasion, and a long task to write out which would keep him employed during the play-hours of that day.

He was then dismissed, and Dr. Wilkinson again addressed himself to Louis: “I am glad to find that part of your story is correct; but I now wish you to explain how my key found its way into the school-room yesterday, when discovered by Mr. Witworth. The book must have been deliberately taken out of this room into the school-room. You appear to have been alone, or nearly so, in the school-room the greater part of yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Witworth found the book half concealed by your lesson books while you were writing your exercises.”

“I assure you, sir, I did not take it,” said Louis.

“Unhappily,” replied Dr. Wilkinson, “I cannot take a mere assurance in the present instance. Had not the case been so palpable, I should have been bound to believe you until I had had reason to mistrust your word—but with these facts I cannot, Louis;” and he added, in a very low tone, so as to be heard only by Louis, who was much nearer to him than the others, “Your honor has not always been sacred—beware.”

His school-fellows wondered what made the red flush mount so furiously in Louis' forehead, and the tears spring to his eyes. The painful feelings called forth by his master's speech prevented him from speaking for a few minutes. He was roused by Dr. Wilkinson saying—

“The discovery of this Key in your possession would involve your immediate dismissal from the second class, a sufficient disgrace, but the matter assumes a far more serious aspect from these assertions of innocence. If you had not used the book when discovered, it must have been taken either by you, or another, for use. The question is now, who took it?”

“I did not, sir,” said Louis, in great alarm.

“Who did, then? Were any of your class with you?”

“No, sir.”

“Was any one with you?”

Louis paused. A sudden thought flashed across him—a sudden recollection of seeing that book passed over and slipped among his books; an action he had taken no notice of at the time, and which had never struck him till this moment. He now glanced eagerly at Ferrers, and then, in a tremulous voice, said, “I remember now, Ferrers put it there—I am almost sure.”

“Ferrers!” exclaimed the young men, with one voice.

“What humbugging nonsense!” said Salisbury, in a low tone.

“Do you hear, Mr. Ferrers?” said the doctor: “how came you to put that Key among Louis Mortimer's books?”

“I, sir—I never,” stammered Ferrers. “What should I want with it? What good could I get by it? Is it likely?”

“I am not arguing on the possibility of such an event, I simply wish to know if you did it?” said the doctor.

“I, sir—no,” exclaimed Ferrers, with an air of injured innocence. “If I had done it, why did he not accuse me at once, instead of remembering it all of a sudden?”

“Because I only just remembered that I saw you moving something towards me, and I am almost sure it was that book now—I think so,” replied Louis.

“You'd better be quite sure,” said Ferrers.

Dr. Wilkinson looked from one to the other, and his look might have made a less unprincipled youth fear to persist in so horrible a falsehood.

“Were you learning your lessons in the school-room yesterday afternoon, Mr. Ferrers, at the same time with Louis Mortimer?” Ferrers acknowledging this, Dr. Wilkinson sent for Mr. Witworth, and asked him if he had observed either Ferrers or Louis go into the study during the afternoon, and if he knew what each brought out with him. Mr. Witworth replied that both went in, but he did not know what for.

“I went in to get an atlas for Ferrers,” cried Louis, in great agitation.

“I got the atlas myself, Mortimer, you know,” said Ferrers.

Louis was quite overcome. He covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.

“This is a sad business,” said Dr. Wilkinson, very gravely; “much worse than I expected—one of you must be giving utterance to the most frightful untruths. Which of you is it?”

“What would Ferrers want with the Key to The Greek Exercises sir?” suggested Trevannion, “unless he wished to do an ill turn to Mortimer, which you cannot suppose.”

“I have hitherto trusted Mr. Ferrers,” replied Dr. Wilkinson; “and am not disposed to withdraw that confidence without sufficient cause. Mr. Ferrers, on your word of honor, am I to believe your statement?”

Ferrers turned pale, but the doctor's steady gaze was upon him, and all his class-fellows awaited his reply—visions of disgrace, contempt, and scorn were before him, and there was no restraining power from within to check him, as he hastily replied, “On my word of honor, sir.”

“I must believe you, then, as I can imagine no motive which could induce you to act dishonorably by this boy, were I to discover that any one in my school had acted so, his immediate expulsion should be the consequence.”

The dead silence that followed the doctor's words struck coldly on the heart of the guilty coward.

“Now, Louis Mortimer,” said the doctor, sternly, “I wish to give you another chance of confessing your fault.”

Louis' thick convulsive sobs only replied to this. After waiting a few minutes, Dr. Wilkinson said, “Go now to the little study joining my dining-room, and wait there till I come: I shall give you half an hour to consider.”

Louis left the room, and repaired to the study, where he threw himself on a chair in a paroxysm of grief, which, for the first quarter of an hour, admitted of no alleviation: “He had no character. The doctor had heard all before. All believed him guilty—and how could Ferrers act so? How could it ever be found out? And, oh! his dear father and mother, and his grandfather, would believe it.”

By degrees the violence of his distress subsided, and he sent up his tearful petitions to his heavenly Father, till his overloaded heart felt lightened of some of its sorrow. As he grew calmer, remembrances of old faults came before him, and he thought of a similar sin of his own, and how nearly an innocent person had suffered for it—and this he felt was much easier to bear than the consciousness of having committed the fault himself; and he remembered the sweet verses in the first Epistle of St. Peter: “What glory is it if, when ye be buffeted for your faults, ye take it patiently; but if when ye do well and suffer for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God. For even hereunto ye were called, because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example that we should follow His steps: who did no sin, neither was guile found in His mouth; who, when He was reviled, reviled not again; when He suffered, He threatened not; but committed Himself to Him that judgeth righteously,”—and the feeling of indignation against Ferrers was gradually changed into almost pity for him, for Louis knew by experience the pain of a loaded conscience. While his thoughts thus ran over the past and present, he heard the firm step of Dr. Wilkinson crossing the hall, and nearly at the same moment that gentleman entered the room. There was no pity in his countenance—the dark lines in his face seemed fixed in their most iron mould; and briefly announcing to his trembling pupil that the time allowed him for consideration had expired, he asked whether he were prepared to acknowledge his fault. Louis meekly persisted in his denial, which had only the effect of making the doctor consider him a more hardened offender; and after a few words, expressing the strongest reprehension of his wickedness and cowardice, he gave him severe caning, and sent him immediately to bed, although it was but the middle of the day. In spite of the better feelings which urged poor Louis to acknowledge the justice, under the circumstances, of his master's proceedings, he could not help thinking that he had been very hardly treated. He hurried up stairs, glad to indulge his grief in silence. How many times, in the affliction of the next few hours, did he repeat a little hymn he had learned at home:

“Thy lambs, dear Shepherd, that are weak,

Are thy peculiar care;

'Tis Thine in judgment to afflict,

And Thine in love to spare.

“Though young in years, yet, oh! how oft

Have I a rebel been;

My punishment, O Lord, is mild,

Nor equals all my sin.

“Since all the chastisements I feel

Are from Thy love alone,

Let not one murmuring thought arise,

But may Thy will be done.

“Then let me blush with holy shame,

And mourn before my Lord,

That I have lived to Thee no more,

No more obeyed Thy word.”

—“Hymns for Sunday-Schools”

At last he fell asleep, and oh! to wake; from that sleep! It was surely good to be afflicted, and in the happiness of his mind Louis forgot his trouble. But he had yet to endure much more, and the bitterest part of his punishment came the next morning, when, according to his master's orders, he repaired to the study with his books. He had been desired to remain in this room out of school-hours, and was forbidden to speak to any of his school-fellows without leave. While he was sitting there the first morning after the inquiry related in this chapter, Dr. Wilkinson entered with a letter, and sat down at the table where Louis was reading. As he opened his desk, he said, “I have a painful task to perform. This is a letter from your father, Louis Mortimer, and he particularly requests that I should give him an account of your conduct and your brother's; you know what an account I can give of you both.”

Louis had listened very attentively to his master's speech, and when it was concluded he gave way to such a burst of sorrow as quite touched the doctor. For some minutes he wept almost frantically, and then clasping his hands, he implored Dr. Wilkinson not to tell his father what had happened: “It will break mamma's heart, it will break mamma's heart, sir—do not tell my father.”

“Confess your fault, Louis, and I may then speak of amendment,” said the doctor.

“I cannot, indeed—indeed I cannot. It will all come out by and bye: you will see, sir—oh! you will see, sir,” sobbed Louis, deprecating the gathering of the angry cloud on the doctor's face. “Oh! do not tell mamma, for it is not true.”

“I do not wish to hear any more, sir,” said the doctor, sternly.

“Oh! what shall I do—what shall I do!” cried Louis; and he pushed his chair quickly from the table, and, throwing himself on his knees by Dr. Wilkinson, seized the hand that was beginning to date the dreaded letter—“I assure you I did not, sir—I am speaking the truth.”

“As you always do, doubtless,” said the doctor, drawing his hand roughly away. “Get up, sir; kneel to Him you have so deeply offended, but not to me.”

Louis rose, but stood still in the same place. “Will you hear only this one thing, sir? I will not say any thing more about my innocence—just hear me, if you please, sir.”

Dr. Wilkinson turned his head coldly towards him.

Louis dried his tears, and spoke with tolerable calmness: “I have one thing to ask, sir—will you allow me still to remain in the second class, and to do my lessons always in this room? You will then see if I can do without keys, or having any help.”

“I know you can if you choose,” replied Dr. Wilkinson, coldly, “or I should not have placed you in that class.”

“But, if you please, sir, I know all,”—Louis paused, he had promised to say no more on that subject.

There was a little silence, during which Dr. Wilkinson looked earnestly at Louis. At last he said, “You may stay in the class; but, remember, you are forbidden to speak to any of your school-fellows for the next week without express permission.”

“Not to my brother, sir?”

“No; now go.”

“May I write to mamma?”

“Yes, if you wish it.”

After timidly thanking the doctor, Louis returned to his seat, and Dr. Wilkinson continued his letter, which went off by the same post that took Louis' to his mother.

Chapter V.

“Now no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous; nevertheless, afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby.”—Heb. xii. 11.

“Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now have I kept Thy word.”—Psalm cxix. 67.

Perhaps there is no state more dangerous to a Christian's peace of mind than one of continual prosperity. In adversity even the worldly man will sometimes talk of resignation, and feel that it is a good thing to be acquainted and at peace with God, and that when all human help is cut off, it is a sweet thing to have a sure refuge in an almighty Saviour. But in prosperity the ungodly never look to Him; and His own children, carrying about with them a sinful nature, against which they must continually maintain a warfare, are too apt to forget the Giver in his gifts, and to imagine that all is well because nothing occurs to disturb the regularity of their blessings.

Our little Louis, though the trial he now underwent was a bitter one, and though at times it seemed almost too hard to be endured, learned by degrees to feel that it was good for him. He had been in too high favor, he had trusted too much in the good word of his school-fellows, and had suffered the fear of man to deter him from his duty to God; and now, isolated and looked upon as an unworthy member of the little society to which he belonged, he learned to find his sole happiness in that sweet communion which he had now solitary leisure to enjoy. His very troubles carried him to a throne of grace; his desolate condition made him feel that there was only One who never changed nor forsook His people; only One who could understand and feel for the infirmities and sorrows of a human creature; and though to the ungodly it is a terror to know that there is “nothing that is not manifest in God's sight,” to the true child of God it is an unspeakable comfort to feel that his thoughts and actions are “known long before” by his unwearied Guardian.

The effects of Louis' lonely communings were soon visible in his daily conduct, and after his term of punishment had expired, the meekness of his bearing, and the gentle lowliness of his demeanor, often disarmed the most severe and unpitying of his youthful judges. There was no servility in his manner, for he neither courted nor shunned observation; nor, though he was as willing as ever to do a kind action for any one, did he allow himself to be persuaded to give up all his time to his idler school-fellows. There seemed more firmness and decision in his naturally yielding disposition, and those who knew not the power of assisting grace, looked and wondered at the firmness the sweet but weak boy could at times assume. He would have told them it was not his own. He was very quiet, and spoke little, even to his brother, of what was passing in his mind, and sometimes his thoughts were so quietly happy that he did not like to be spoken to. To Ferrers, Louis was as gentle and courteous as to the rest of his companions, and, indeed, he had now little other feeling towards him than that of sorrow and pity.

There had been an unusual noise in the study one evening, while Louis was absent, and when he entered it, he found the confusion attendant on a grand uproar. Very little was doing, and tokens of the late skirmish lay about the floor in torn and scattered books, and overthrown forms. Among others, Ferrers was hunting for a missing book, but to discover it in such a chaos was a difficult task, especially as no one would now allow the candles to be used in the search.

With many expressions, so unfitted for refined ears that I do not choose to present them to my reader, Ferrers continued his search, now and then attempting to snatch a candle from the table, in which he was regularly foiled by those sitting there.

“Well, at least have the civility to move and let me see if it is under the table,” he said at length.

“You have hindered us long enough,” said Salisbury; “Smith, Jones, and I have done nothing to-night. If you will have rows, you must e'en take the consequences.”

“Can't you get under the form?” asked Smith, derisively.

Ferrers was going to make some angry, reply, when Louis dived between the table and the form, with some trouble, and, at the expense of receiving a few unceremonious kicks, recovered the book and gave it to Ferrers, who hardly thanked him, but leaning his head on his hand, seemed almost incapable of doing any thing. Presently he looked up, and asked in a tone of mingled anger and weariness, what had become of the inkstand he had brought.

“Loosing's seeking,

Finding's keeping,”

said Salisbury. “Which is yours? Perhaps it's under the table too.”

“Hold your nonsense,” cried Ferrers, angrily. “It's very shabby of you to hinder me in this manner.”

Louis quietly slipped an inkstand near him, an action of which Ferrers was quite aware, and though he pretended not to notice it, he availed himself presently of the convenience. A racking headache, however, almost disabled him from thinking, and though he was really unwell, there was only the boy he had so cruelly injured who felt any sympathy for his suffering.

Louis carefully avoided any direct manifestation of his anxiety to return good for evil, for he felt, though he hardly knew why, that his actions would be misconstrued, but whenever any little opportunity occurred in which he could really render any service, he was always as ready to do it for Ferrers as for another; and now, when from his classmates Ferrers met with nothing but jokes on his “beautiful temper,” and “placid state of mind,” he could not help feeling the gentleness of Louis' conduct, the absence of pleasure in his annoyance, and the look of evident sympathy he met whenever he accidentally turned his eyes in his direction. For a few days after this he was obliged to keep his bed, and during this time, though Louis only once saw him, he thought of every little kind attention he could, that might be grateful to the invalid. Knowing that he was not a favorite, and that few in the school would trouble themselves about him, he borrowed books and sent them to him for his amusement, and empowered the old cake man to procure some grapes, which he sent up to him by a servant, with strict orders to say nothing of where they came from. The servant met Hamilton at the door of the room, and he relieved her of her charge, and as she did not consider herself under promise of secrecy towards him, she mentioned it, desiring him at the same time to say nothing to Ferrers.

Louis had now established a regular time for doing his own lessons, and kept to it with great perseverance to the end of the half-year, with one exception, when he had been acting prisoner in a trial performed in the school-room, by half his own class and the third, and let the evening slip by without remembering how late it grew. His class-fellows were in the same predicament as himself, and as they had barely time to write a necessary exercise, they agreed among themselves to learn each his own piece of the lesson they had to repeat. Louis did not seriously consider the deceit they were practising, and adopted the same plan. One of the number, not trusting to his memory, hit upon the singular expedient of writing the whole of his piece and the next on a piece of paper, and wafering it to the instep of his shoe when he went up to his class. Unhappily for his scheme, he was so placed that he dared not expose his foot so as to allow him to avail himself of this delectable assistance, and consequently, after much looking on the floor for inspiration, and much incoherent muttering, was passed over, and the order of things being thereby disturbed, of course no one could say the missing lines until the head boy was applied to, and the lower half of the class was turned down, with the exception of Louis, who, standing on this occasion just above the gentleman of shoe memory, had been able to say his share.

As they were breaking up, Mr. Danby said to Louis, “You have been very industrious lately, Louis Mortimer: I am glad you have been so correct to-day.”

Louis blushed from a consciousness of undeserved praise; but though his natural fear of offending and losing favor sprung up directly, a higher principle faced it, and bearing down all obstacles, forced him to acknowledge his unworthiness of the present encomium.

“I ought to learn mine, sir,—I learned my piece to-day.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Danby.

“I learned my part of the lesson, as well as Harris, Williams, Sutton, and Charles Salisbury. We forgot our lessons last night, but it is quite an accident that I have said mine to-day.”

“I am glad you have had the honor to say so,” said Mr. Danby. “Of course you must learn yours, but let me have no more learning pieces, if you please.”

Chapter VI.

“Blessed are they that dwell in Thy house, they will be still praising Thee. For a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a door-keeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.”—Psalm lxxxiv. 4, 10.

Dr. Wilkinson's school was too large to be entirely accommodated with sittings in the nearest church—and, consequently, was divided into two bodies on Sunday, one of which regularly attended one of the churches in Bristol, where Mr. Wilkinson, the doctor's son, occasionally did duty. It fell to Louis' lot, generally, to be of the Bristol party, and unless the day was rainy he was not ill-pleased with his destiny, for the walk was very pleasant, and there was something in the chorus of bells in that many-churched city, and the sight of the gray towers and spires, very congenial to his feelings. It happened that the Sunday after Louis had received permission to mix as usual with his school-fellows was one of those peculiarly sunny days that seem to call upon God's people especially to rejoice and be glad in the Works of His hand. Louis' mind was in a more than usually peaceful state, and his heart overflowed with quiet happiness as he looked down from the height of Brandon Hill upon the city below. He and his companion had walked on rather faster than the rest of their school-fellows, and now stood waiting till they came up.

“A penny for your thoughts, Mortimer,” said his companion, a pleasant-looking boy of fifteen or sixteen years of age; “you are very silent to-day—what may be the subject of your profound meditations?”

Louis hardly seemed to hear the question, for he suddenly turned his bright face to his interrogator, and exclaimed, “What a beautiful sight it is to see so many churches together, Meredith! I think our churches make us such a happy country.”

Louis and Meredith on Brandon Hill.

“Upon my word,” replied Meredith, “you are endowing those piles of stone with considerable potency. What becomes of commerce and—”

“I mean, of course,” interrupted Louis, “that it is religion that makes us a happier country than others. I love so to look at the churches; the sight of one sometimes, when all is fair and quiet, brings the tears into my eyes.”

“Hey-dey! quite sentimental! You'd better be a parson, I think.”

“I hope I shall be a clergyman—I wish very much to be one—there is not such another happy life. I was just thinking, Meredith, when you spoke to me, of a verse we read yesterday morning, which quite expresses my feelings: ‘One thing have I desired of the Lord which I will seek after, that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in His temple.’ ”

Meredith looked with some surprise at Louis, and as they moved on he said carelessly, “I suppose somebody will have the gratification of beholding me in a long gown some day, holding forth for the edification of my devoted flock.”

“Are you going to be a clergyman?” asked Louis.

“Yes, I suppose I must. Don't you think I shall be a most useful character?”

“Oh! surely you wish it, do you not?”

“Well, I don't much mind,” replied Meredith, snatching a handful of leaves from the hedge near him; “I shall have a nice fat living, and it's a respectable kind of thing.”

Louis was horror-struck—he had not imagined such an idea—he almost gasped out, “Oh! Meredith, I can hardly understand you. Surely that is not your only wish about it: that cannot be a reason—not a right one.”

“Why, what's the harm?” said Meredith, laughing. “I only say outright what hundreds think. If I could choose, perhaps I might like the army best, but my father has a comfortable provision in the church for me, and so I, like a dutiful son, don't demur, especially as, if I follow the example of my predecessor, it will be vastly more easy than a soldier's life.”

“Meredith, Meredith, this is too solemn a thing to laugh about. I have often wondered how it is there are clergymen who can take their duties so easily as some do; but if they only undertake them for your reasons, I cannot feel so much surprised that they should be so careless. How can you expect any happiness from such a life! I should be afraid to talk so.”

Meredith stared contemptuously. “You are a Methodist, Louis,” he said; “I have no doubt I shall preach as good sermons as you: just put on a grave face, and use a set of tender phrases, and wear a brilliant on your little finger, and a curly head, and there you are a fashionable preacher at once—and if you use your white pocket-handkerchief occasionally, throw your arms about a little, look as if you intended to tumble over the pulpit and embrace the congregation, and dose your audience with a little pathos, you may draw crowds—the ladies will idolize you.”

“I should not think that such popularity would be very good,” replied Louis, “supposing you could do as you say; but it seems to me quite shocking to speak in such a slighting manner of so holy a thing. Were you ever at an ordination, Meredith?”

“Not I,” said Meredith.

“I should think if you had been you would be afraid to think of going to answer the solemn questions you will be asked when you are ordained. I was once with papa at an ordination at Norwich cathedral, and I shall never forget how solemnly that beautiful service came upon me. I could not help thinking how dreadful it must be to come there carelessly, and I wondered how the gentlemen felt who were kneeling there—and the hymn was so magnificent, Meredith. I think if you were there with your present feelings, you would be afraid to stay. It would seem like mocking God to come to answer all those solemn questions, and not mean what you said. I think it is wicked.”

Louis spoke rapidly, and with great emotion.

Meredith looked angry, struggling with a feeling of shame, and a wish to laugh it off. “You are exclusively precise,” he said; “others are not, and have as much right to their opinion as you to yours. Trevannion, for instance—he's going into the church because it is so genteel.”

“I hope you are mistaken,” said Louis, quickly.

“Not I; I heard him say the same thing myself.”

“I am very sorry,” said Louis, sadly. “Oh! I would rather be a laborer than go into the church with such a wish—and yet, I had rather be a very poor curate than a rich duke: it is such a happy, holy life.” The last part of Louis' speech was nearly inaudible, and no more was said until the afternoon.

It was Dr. Wilkinson's wish that the Sabbath should be passed as blamelessly as he had the power of ordering it in his household; but to make it a day of reverence and delight among so large a number of boys, with different dispositions and habits of life, was an arduous task. Mr. James Wilkinson was with the boys the whole afternoon, as well as his father, to whose utmost endeavors he joined his own, that the day might not be wholly unprofitable. In spite, however, of all diligence, it could not fail of often being grossly misspent with many of the pupils; for it is not possible for human power effectually to influence the heart, and, until that is done, any thing else can be but an outward form.

This afternoon the boys were scattered over the large playground. In one corner was the doctor, with twenty or thirty boys around him, and in other directions, the different ushers hearing Catechisms and other lessons. Some of the parties were very dull, for no effort was made by the instructor to impart a real delight in the Word of God to his pupils; and religion was made merely a matter of question and answer, to remain engraved in such heartless form on the repugnant mind of the learner. And, alas! how can it be otherwise, where the teacher himself does not know that religion is a real and happy thing, and not to be learned as we teach our boys the outlines of heathen mythology?

Sitting on the ground, lolling against one of the benches under a tree, sat Hastings Meredith and Reginald and Louis Mortimer; and one or two more were standing or sitting near; all of whom had just finished answering all the questions in the Church Catechism to Mr. Danby, and had said a Psalm.

Louis was sitting on the bench, looking flushed, thinking of holidays, and, of course, of home,—home Sabbaths, those brightest days of home life,—when Trevannion came up with his usual air of cool, easy confidence. Trevannion was the most gentlemanly young man in the school; he never was in a hurry; was particularly alive to any thing “vulgar,” or “snobbish,” and would have thought it especially unbecoming in him to exhibit the smallest degree of annoyance at any untoward event. It took a good deal to put him out of countenance, and he esteemed it rather plebeian to go his own errands, or, indeed, to take any unnecessary trouble.

“Were you in Bristol this morning, Meredith?” he said.

“Yes, sure, your highness,” replied Meredith, yawning.

“Tired apparently,” said Trevannion ironically, glancing at the recumbent attitude of the speaker.

“Worried to death with that old bore Danby, who's been going backwards and forwards for the last hour, with ‘What is your name?’ and ‘My good child,’ &c. I'm as tired as—as—oh help me for a simile! as a pair of worn-out shoes.”

“A poetical simile at last,” remarked Reginald, laughing.

“You would have a nice walk,” said Trevannion.

“Very! and a sermon gratis to boot,” replied Meredith. “It would have done you good, Trevannion, to have heard what shocking things you have done in being so very genteel.”

“What do you mean?” said Trevannion, coolly.

“Louis Mortimer was giving me a taste of his Methodistical mind on the duties of clergymen generally, and your humble servant especially.”

“I presume you do not include yourself in the fraternity yet?” said Trevannion.

“Not exactly; but having informed him of my prospects, the good child began to upbraid me with my hypocrisy, and, bless you, such a thundering sermon,—positively quite eloquent.”

“Perhaps I may be allowed to profit by the second part of it,” said Trevannion, turning to Louis; “will you be kind enough to edify me?”

Louis did not reply, and Trevannion's lips curled slightly as he remarked, “There is an old proverb about those who live in glass houses—‘Physician, cure thyself.’ ”

Poor Louis turned away, and Meredith, stretching himself and yawning terrifically, continued, “You must know, Trevannion, that it is very wicked to be any thing but a Methodist, very wicked for a clergyman to be genteel, or to wish to make himself comfortable.”

“Hastings, I did not say so,” said Louis, turning his head.

“And so,” continued Meredith, without noticing Louis, “if we dare to follow up our own or our fathers' wishes, we must listen to Louis Mortimer, and he will tell us what to do.”

“Much obliged to him, I am sure,” said Trevannion.

“Yes, so am I,” rejoined Meredith, “though I forgot to tender my thanks before; and hereby give notice, that when I am in orders, I will not hunt more than convenient, nor play cards on Good Friday, nor go to dancing parties on Saturday evening.”

“Pshaw, Meredith,” said Trevannion: “it is very unbecoming to talk in this manner of so sacred a profession. A hunting and card-playing clergyman ought to be stripped of his gown without hesitation. Any right-minded person would recoil with horror at such a character. It is a great disgrace to the profession; no clergyman ought to enter into any kind of improper dissipation. Your ideas are very light and indelicate.”

“Will you be kind enough to define that term, improper dissipation,” said Meredith, carelessly. “I presume you have no objection to a quiet dance now and then, only they must not call it a ball.”

“A clergyman ought not to dance,” replied Trevannion, in precisely the same cool, dictatorial manner.

“He may look on them, may he not?” said Meredith.

“A clergyman has many serious duties to perform, and he should be very careful that he does not degrade his office,” replied Trevannion. “He has to uphold the dignity of the church, and should take care that his conduct is such that no reproach can fall on that church from his inconsistency.”

“Well, for my part,” said Meredith, lightly, “I think the church too important to miss the weight of my example. I mean to have a most exemplary curate.”

Near these speakers sat Mr. James Wilkinson, with a few little boys, whom at this moment he hastily dismissed, for the sound of the light conversation reached him, and he arose quickly and introduced himself to the little côterie just as Reginald exclaimed, “For shame, Meredith!”

“Ay, for shame,” said Mr. James: “I have heard a little of what has been going on among you, and am really very sorry to hear such expressions on a subject so solemn and important. Meredith, you cannot be aware of what you are saying. I should like to have a little talk about this matter; and, Mr. Trevannion, if you will give me your attention for a few minutes, I shall be obliged to you.”

Trevannion seated himself on the bench, and folding his arms, remained in an attitude of passive attention.

“Lend me your prayer-book, Mortimer,” said Mr. James, and he quickly turned to the service for the ordering of deacons. “The first question here put to the candidate for holy orders is, ‘Do you trust that you are inwardly moved by the Holy Ghost, to take upon you this office and ministration, to serve God for the promoting of His glory and the edifying of His people?’ Now, Meredith, I ask you to think, whether, with such sentiments as you have just expressed, you can dare to answer, ‘I trust so?’ ”

“I never thought very seriously about it,” said Meredith, rather abruptly.

“But you know these things must be thought of seriously and prayerfully. It is required of a man in every station of life, that he be faithful and diligent, serving the Lord, and whoever does not remember this, must answer for his neglect of such duty to his Maker. It will not do to say that our individual example can be of no importance; the command, ‘Occupy till I come,’ is laid upon each one of us; but what must be said of him who, in a careless, light frame of mind, takes these holy vows upon him, knowing in his own mind that he intends to break them; that his sole desire to be put into the priest's office is to eat a morsel of bread? What shall be said of him who goes into the house of God, and in the presence of His people declares that it is his intention, ‘to search gladly and willingly for the sick and poor of his parish, to relieve their necessities; to frame his own life and the lives of his family according to the doctrine of Christ; to be diligent in prayers and in reading of the Holy Scriptures, laying aside the study of the world and the flesh,’ and yet knows that he intends to enjoy himself in the things of this world—a very hireling who forgets that his master's eye is upon him. It is a fearful thing. It is coming before the Almighty with a lie. Nay, hear me a little longer. The clergyman's is a glorious and exalted path, the happiest I know of on earth. It is his especially to bear the message of salvation from a tender Saviour. It is his to go forth with the balm of heavenly comfort, to bind up the wounds sin and grief have made. It is his indeed pre-eminently to dwell in the house of his God, to be hid away from the world and its many allurements; but as every great blessing brings with it a great responsibility, so the responsibility of the minister of Christ is very great, and if he turn from the commandment delivered to him, his condemnation is fearful. I should be much obliged to you, Meredith, if you would read me these verses.”

Meredith took the open Bible from Mr. Wilkinson's hand, and read aloud the first ten verses of the 34th of Ezekiel.

“In this holy word, which must be the standard for all our conduct, we do not find that the Almighty looks upon this office as a light thing. In the thirty-third chapter there is so solemn a warning to the careless watchman, that I wonder any one who does not steadfastly intend to give himself to his sacred duties, can read it and not tremble. ‘If the watchman see the sword come, and blow not the trumpet, and the people be not warned; if the sword come, and take away any person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at the watchman's hand. So thou, O son of man, I have set thee a watchman unto the house of Israel; therefore thou shalt hear the word at my mouth, and warn them from me. When I say unto the wicked, Oh wicked man, thou shalt surely die; if thou dost not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand.’ This is the second solemn warning to the same purport given to Ezekiel; for, in the third chapter, we find the same thing; and these are awful truths engraved in God's everlasting word, by which we are to be judged at the last day. You must excuse me,” continued Mr. Wilkinson, and his eyes glistened with emotion; “but I am a watchman, and I must warn you of the fearful sin you are contemplating.”

Meredith was silent. He was impressed with the earnestness displayed by Mr. Wilkinson, and the solemn truths he had brought before him—truths it would be well if all those who are looking forward to entering the sacred ministry would seriously and prayerfully consider.

The tea bell ringing at this moment, the conversation was necessarily concluded; but that evening after prayers, Mr. Wilkinson put into Meredith's hand a piece of paper, on which were written the following references: Num. xvi. 9; Isaiah lii. 7, 8; lxii. 6, 7; Jer. xxiii. 1-4; Ezek. iii. 17-21; xxxiii. 1-9; xxxiv. 1-10; John xxi. 15-17; 1 Cor. ix. 16, 17, 19; and both the Epistles to Timothy; and underneath the references was the Apostle's injunction, “Meditate upon these things; give thyself wholly to them, that thy profiting may appear unto all.”

When Louis was fairly in bed that night, he was called on for a story.

“Tell us the end of the princess Rosetta, Louis,” cried Frank; “I want to know how the fair animal got out of her watery bedroom, and whether the green dog ever got his nose nipped by the oysters he was so fond of snapping up.”

“Yes, Rosetta!” cried several voices. “Did she ever get to the king of the peacocks, Louis?”

“No, no,” cried Reginald; “it is not fit for Sunday.”

“I am sure we have been doing heaps of good things to-day,” replied Frank, lightly; “come, Louis.”

“I must not,” said Louis, gently. “I do not like telling stories at night at all, because I think we ought not to fill our heads with such things when we are going to sleep; but I must not tell you Rosetta to-night, Frank.”

“Get along,” said Frank, contemptuously; “you are not worth the snap of a finger. All you are ever worth is to tell stories, and now you must needs set up for a good, pious boy—you, forsooth of all others!”

“Indeed, Frank, you will not understand me.”

“If you dare to say any more to Louis,” cried Reginald, “I'll make you—”

Louis' hand was upon Reginald's mouth.

Frank replied, tauntingly, “Ay, finish your work this time, that's right. Come boys, never mind, I'll tell you a wonderful tale.”

“I think we'd better not have one to-night,” said one; “perhaps Mortimer's right.”

“Don't have one, don't!” said Louis, starting up; “do not let us forget that all this day is God's day, and that we must not even speak our own words.”

“None of your cant,” cried one.

“Well, I propose that we go to sleep, and then we shan't hear what he says,” said Meredith. “They talk of his not having pluck enough to speak, but he can do it when he pleases,” he remarked in a low tone to his next companion, Frank Digby, who rejoined,

“More shame for him, the little hypocrite. I like real religious people, but I can't bear cant.”

What Frank's idea of real religion was, may be rather a difficult matter to settle. Probably it was an obscure idea to himself,—an idea of certain sentiment and no vitality.

Chapter VII.

The next Saturday afternoon proving unusually fine, the community at Ashfield House sallied forth to enjoy their half-holiday on the downs. A few of the seniors had received permission to pay a visit to Bristol, and not a small party was arranged for a good game of cricket. Among the latter was Reginald Mortimer, whose strong arm and swift foot were deemed almost indispensable on such occasions. As he rushed out of the playground gates, bat in hand, accompanied by Meredith, he overtook his brother, who had discovered a poem unknown to him in Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, and was anticipating a pleasant mental feast in its perusal.

“Louis, you lazy fellow,” cried Reginald, good-temperedly, “you shan't read this fine afternoon—come, join us.”

“I don't play cricket, I have not learned,” replied Louis.

“And you never will,” rejoined Reginald, “if you don't make a beginning: I'll teach you—now put away that stupid book.”

“Stupid!” said Louis. “It's Coleridge, that mamma promised to read to us.”

“I hate poetry,” exclaimed Reginald; “I wonder how anybody can read such stuff. Give me the book, Louis, and come along.”

“No, thank you, I'd rather not.”

“What a donkey you are!” said Meredith: “why don't you learn?”

“Perhaps my reputation may be the safer for not divulging my reasons,” said Louis, archly: “it is sufficient for present purposes that I had rather not.”

“Rather not—rather not,” echoed Meredith: “like one of your sensible reasons.”

“He has refused to give them, so you cannot call that his reason, Meredith,” remarked Reginald; “but let us be off, as Louis won't come.”

Away they ran, and after looking at them for a minute, Louis turned off his own way, but it was destined that he should not read the Ancient Mariner that day, for he was presently interrupted by little Alfred Hamilton, who pounced upon him full of joy.

“Louis,” he cried, “I am so glad to speak to you! I don't know how it is that I have not been able to speak to you lately: I half thought Edward did not like it, but he asked me to-day why I did not come to you now.”

“Did he?” exclaimed Louis, with joyful surprise; “I am very glad you are come. I think we shall have a beautiful walk.”

“I can't think how it is, Louis, that everybody is either so grave or rude when I speak of you. What is the matter?”

“A mistake; and a sad one for me,” said Louis, gravely. “But don't say any thing about it, Alfred; they think I have been doing something very wrong; but all will come out some day.”

“I hope so,” replied little Alfred; “I cannot think what you can have done wrong, Louis, you always seem so good.”

The child looked wistfully up in Louis' face as he spoke, and seemed to wait some explanation.

“That is because you do not know much about me, Alfred,” replied Louis; “but in this one case I have not done wrong, I assure you.”

Alfred asked no more questions, though he looked more than once in the now sorrowful young face by him, as they sauntered along the wide downs.

“Here come Edward and Mr. Trevannion,” said Alfred, turning round; “and there is Frank Digby, and Mr. Ferrers, too. I think Edward is going to Bristol this afternoon.”

This intimation of the august approach of his majesty and court was hardly given when the young gentlemen passed Louis. Hamilton, with Trevannion, as usual, leaning on his arm, and Frank Digby walking backwards before them, vainly endeavoring to support a failing argument with a flood of nonsense, a common custom with this young gentleman; and, by the way, we might recommend it as remarkably convenient at such times, to prevent the pain of a total discomfiture, it being more pleasant to slip quietly and unseen from your pedestal to some perfectly remote topic, than to allow yourself to be hurled roughly therefrom by the rude hand of a more sound and successful disputant.

“Enough, enough, Frank!” exclaimed Hamilton, laughing. “I see through your flimsy veil. We won't say any more: you either argue in a circle, or try to blind us.”

Louis looked up as Hamilton passed, in hopes that that magnate might give him a favorable glance, in which he was not mistaken, for Edward the Great had been watching him from some distance, and was perfectly aware of his near approach to him.

He certainly did not seem displeased, though the grave countenance bore no marks of particular satisfaction at the rencontre. He spoke carelessly to his brother, and then, addressing Louis, said, “You must look after him, Louis, if you wish for his company; if not, dismiss him at once.”

“I do wish for him,” said Louis, with a bright look of gratitude; “I promise to take care of him. Mr. Hamilton, I am getting up in my class—I am fifth now.”

The latter communication was made doubtfully, in a tone indicating mixed pleasure and timidity.

“I am glad to hear it,” was Hamilton's laconic reply. He did not quicken his pace. “What have you there?” he asked, noticing his book.

“Coleridge's Ancient Mariner; I was going to read it,” replied Louis; “but now Alfred has come we shall talk: shall we not, Alfred?”

This was accompanied by another look of grateful pleasure at Alfred's brother.

What was passing in Hamilton's mind was not to be gathered from his countenance, which exhibited no emotion of any kind. He turned to Trevannion, as their party was strengthened by Churchill, remarking, “Here comes the sucking fish.”

“It's uncommon hot,” said Churchill, taking off his hat, and fanning himself with his handkerchief.

“Dreadful warm,” said Frank Digby, in exactly the same tone.

“And there is not a breath of wind on the horrid downs,” continued the sapient youth, perfectly unconscious of Frank's mimicry.

“What will the fair Louisa do?” cried Frank: “O that a zephyr would have pity on that delicate form!”

Across their path lay a wagon, from which the horses had been detached, and which now offered a tempting though homely shelter to those among the pedestrians who might choose to sit on the shady side, or to avail themselves of the accommodation afforded by the awning over the interior. Ferrers threw himself full length inside the cart: and Louis, drawing Alfred to the shady side, seated himself by him on the grass. His example was followed by Churchill, who exclaimed rapturously as he did so, “How nice! This puts me in mind of a Latin sentence; I forget the Latin, but I remember the English—‘Oh, 'tis pleasant to sit in the shade!’ ”

“Of a wagon,” said Frank, laughing. “Remarkably romantic! It is so sweet to hear the birds chirp, and the distant hum of human voices—but language fails! As for Lady Louisa, she is in the Elysium of ecstasy. It's so romantic.”

“Are you going to Bristol, Frank, for I'm off?” said Hamilton.

“Coming,” replied Frank. “We'll leave these romantic mortals to their sequestered glen. There ain't nothing like imagination, my good sirs.”

As he joined his companions, Trevannion remarked to Hamilton, “Little Mortimer is so much the gentleman, you never know him do or say any thing vulgar or awkward. It is a pity one can't depend upon him.”

“I am not quite sure that you cannot,” replied Hamilton.

“How!” said Trevannion, in astonishment.

“Are you going to turn Paladin for her ladyship?” asked Frank.

“I have been watching Louis very carefully, and the more I see, the more I doubt his guilt,” replied Hamilton.

“After what you saw yourself? After all that was seen by others? Impossible, my dear Hamilton!” exclaimed Trevannion. “You cannot exonerate him without criminating others.”

“We shall see,” replied Hamilton; “and more than that, Trevannion, I am certain that Dr. Wilkinson has his doubts now, too.”

“But does Fudge know any thing about his old pranks?” asked Frank, incredulously.

“I cannot say,” replied Hamilton; “but I think that he probably does; for what is so well known now among ourselves, is likely enough to reach his quick ears.”

“But knowing all you do, my dear Hamilton,” said Trevannion, expostulatingly, “you must be strongly prejudiced in your protegé's favor to admit a doubt in this case. Has Dr. Wilkinson told you that he has any doubts?”

“No,” replied Hamilton; “you know the doctor would not reveal his mind unless he were confident, but I have noticed some little things, and am sure that though he seems generally so indifferent to Louis' presence and concerns, and so distant and cold towards him, he's nevertheless watching him very narrowly; and I, for my part, expect to see things take a new turn before long.”

“The boy seems quite to have won your heart,” said Trevannion.

“Poor fellow,” replied Hamilton, smiling. “He is a sweet-tempered, gentle boy; a little too anxious to be well thought of, and has, perhaps, too little moral courage. I own he has interested me. His very timidity and his numerous scrapes called forth pity in the first instance, and then I saw more. I should not have been surprised at his telling a lie in the first place, but I do not think he would persist in it.”

“I'm afraid wisdom's at fault,” said Frank, shaking his head: “you would not say that Ferrers helped him?—I mean took the key to get him into a scrape.”

“I accused no one, Digby,” replied Hamilton, in a reserved tone; “nor am I going to wrong any one by uttering unformed suspicions.”

“Enough has been said,” remarked Trevannion; “let us drop the subject, and talk of something more interesting to all parties.”

While these young gentlemen pursue their walk, we will retrace our steps to the wagon, where Louis and his little friend have taken shelter.

Churchill, finding neither seemed very much inclined to encourage his conversational powers, took himself off, after remaining in the shade long enough to cool himself. After his departure Louis and Alfred talked lazily on of their own pleasant thoughts and schemes, both delighted at being once more in each other's society. They were within sight of the masters out on the downs, and who had forbidden them to wander beyond certain limits, but still so far from their school-fellows as to be able to enjoy their own private conversation unmolested, and in the feeling of seclusion.

At length, after a pause, Louis made an original remark on the beauty of the weather, which was immediately responded to by his companion, who added that he had not known such a fine day since Miss Wilkinson's wedding.

“Don't you think so?” said Louis; “I think we had one or two Sundays quite as fine.”

“Perhaps I thought that day so very fine, because I wanted to go out,” said Alfred.

“What do you mean?” asked Louis: “we had a holiday then.”

“Yes, I know, but I was not allowed to go out because I had been idle, and had spoken improperly to Mr. Norton. I remember it was so sad. I assure you, Louis, I cried nearly all day; for I was shut up in your class-room, and I heard all the boys so merry outside. The very thought makes me quite sorrowful now.”

A thought flashed across Louis' mind, and he asked quickly—

“Were you shut up in our class-room that holiday, Alfred? I never saw you when I went in.”

“But I saw you once,” said Alfred, “when you came in for an atlas; and I saw Mr. Ferrers, and afterwards Edward and Mr. Salisbury and Mr. Trevannion come in; but I was ashamed, and I did not want any one to see me, so I hid myself between the book-case and the wall.”

“Did your brother know you were there?” asked Louis.

“Not there,” replied Alfred. “He thought I was to go into Dr. Wilkinson's study; but I could not go there, and I didn't want him to speak to me.”

“Did Ferrers come to fetch any thing, Alfred?”

Alfred laughed. “It won't be telling tales out of school to tell you, Louis. He came for a key to the first-class exercise book.”

“How do you know it was a first-class exercise book, Alfred?” asked Louis, with a glowing face and beating heart.

“I know Edward does Kenrick's Latin Exercises, and I know the key because it's just like the book, and I have seen Mr. Ferrers with it before. I remember once on a half-holiday he did his lessons in the school-room at my desk, and he had it open in the desk, and as I wanted something out. I saw it, though he did not think I did.”

“Oh Alfred, Alfred!” cried Louis, clasping him very tightly. “Oh Alfred! dear Alfred!”

The child looked up in astonishment, but Louis was so wild with excitement that he could not say any more.

Just at that moment there was an abrupt movement in the wagon, and Ferrers' head was put over the side.

Alfred uttered an exclamation of fear. “Oh, there's Mr. Ferrers!”

“What rubbish have you been talking, you little impostor?” cried Ferrers. “How dare you talk in such a manner? I've a great mind to kick you from Land's End to John o' Groat's house.”

Ferrers begins to be found out.

“Ferrers, you know it's all true,” said Louis.

Ferrers' face was white with passion and anxiety. “Get along with you, Alfred, you'd better not let me hear any more of your lies, I can tell you.”

“If you had not been listening you would not have heard,” replied Alfred, taking care to stand out of Ferrers' reach. “Listeners never hear any good of themselves, Mr. Ferrers: you know it's all true, and if I'd told Edward, you wouldn't have liked it.”

“Alfred dear, don't say so much,” said Louis.

Alfred here set off running, as Ferrers had dismounted in a very threatening attitude, but instead of giving chase to the daring fugitive, the conscience-stricken youth drew near Louis, who was standing in a state of such delight that he must be excused a little if no thought of his school-fellow's disgrace marred it at present. A glance at the changed and terror-stricken countenance of that school-fellow checked the exuberance of Louis' joy, for he was too sympathizing not to feel for him, and he said in a gentle tone,

“I am very sorry for you, Ferrers,—you have heard all that Alfred has said.”

“Louis Mortimer!” exclaimed Ferrers, in agony; and Louis was half alarmed by the wild despair of his manner, and the vehemence with which he seized his arm. “Louis Mortimer—it is all true—but what shall I do?”

Louis was so startled that he could not answer at first: at last he replied,

“Go and tell the doctor yourself—that will be much the best way.”

“Listen to me a moment—just listen a moment—as soon as Dr. Wilkinson knows it, I shall be expelled, and I shall be ruined for life. What I have suffered, Louis! Oh—you see how it was; I dared not tell about it—how can I hope you can forgive me?”

“I think you must have seen that I forgave you long ago,” replied Louis; “I wish I could do any thing for you, Ferrers, but you cannot expect me to bear the blame of this any longer. I think if you tell it to the doctor yourself, he will, perhaps, overlook it, and I will beg for you.”

“Oh, Louis!” said Ferrers, seizing the passive hand, and speaking more vehemently; “you heard what the doctor said, and he will do it—and for one fault to lose all my prospects in life! I shall leave at the holidays, and then I will tell Dr. Wilkinson; will you—can you—to save a fellow from such disgrace, spare me a little longer? There are only four weeks—oh, Louis! I shall be eternally obliged—but if you could tell—I have a father—just think how yours would feel. Louis, will you, can you do this very great favor for me? I don't deserve any mercy from you, I know; but you are better than I am.”

All the bright visions of acknowledged innocence fled, and a blank seemed to come over poor Louis' soul. The sacrifice seemed far too great, and he felt as if he were not called to make it; and yet—a glance at Ferrers' face—his distress, but not his meanness, struck him. A minute before, he had indulged in bright dreams of more than restoration to favor—of his brother's delight—of his father's and mother's approbation—of his grandfather's satisfaction—and Hamilton's friendly congratulations. And to give up this! it was surely too much to expect.

During his silence, Ferrers kept squeezing, and even kissing, his now cold hand, and repeating,

“Dear Louis—be merciful—will you pity me?—think of all—I don't deserve it, I know.” And though the meanness and cowardliness were apparent, Louis looked at little else than the extreme agony of the suppliant.

“Don't kiss my hand, Ferrers—I can't bear it,” he said at length, drawing his hand quickly away; and there was something akin to disgust mingled with the sorrowful look he gave to his companion.

“But Louis, will you?”

“Oh Ferrers! it is a hard thing to ask of me,” said Louis, bitterly.

“Just for a little longer,” implored Ferrers, “to save me from a lasting disgrace.”

Louis turned his head away—it was a hard, hard struggle: “I will try to bear it if God will help me,” he said; “I will not mention it at present.”

“Oh! how can I thank you! how can I! how shall I ever be able!” cried Ferrers: “but will Alfred tell?”

“He does not know,” replied Louis, in a low tone.

“But will he not mention what has passed?”

“I will warn him then,” said Louis.

Ferrers then in broken sentences renewed his thanks, and Louis, after hearing a few in silence, as if he heard nothing, turned his full moist eyes on him with a sorrowful beseeching look,

“You have done a very wicked thing, Ferrers. Oh do pray to God to forgive you.”

“I will try to do any thing you wish,” replied Ferrers.

“A prayer because I wished, could do you no good. You must feel you have sinned against God. Do try to think of this. If it should make you do so, I think I could cheerfully bear this disgrace a little longer for you, though what it is to bear I cannot tell you.”

“You are almost an angel, Louis!” exclaimed Ferrers.

“Oh don't say such things to me, Ferrers,” said Louis, “pray don't. I am not more so than I was before this—I am but a sinful creature like yourself, and it is the remembrance of this that makes me pity you. Now do leave me alone; I cannot bear to hear you flatter me now.”

Ferrers lingered yet, though Louis moved from him with a shuddering abhorrence of the fawning, creeping manner of his school-fellow. Seeing that Ferrers still loitered near him, he asked if there were any thing more to say.

“Will your brother know this?”

“Reginald?” replied Louis. “Of course—no—I shall not tell him.”

“A thousand thousand times I thank you,—oh Louis, Louis, you are too good!”

“Will you be kind enough to let me alone,” said Louis gently, but very decidedly.

This time the request was complied with, and Louis resumed his former seat, and fixing his eyes vacantly on the sweet prospect before him, ruminated with a full heart on the recent discovery; and, strange to say, though he had voluntarily promised to screen Ferrers a little longer from his justly merited disgrace, he felt as if it had been only a compulsory sense of duty and not benevolence which had led him to do so, and was inclined to murmur at his hard lot. For some time he sat in a kind of sullen apathy, without being able to send up a prayer, even though he felt he needed help to feel rightly. At length the kindly tears burst forth, and covering his face with his hands he wept softly. “I am very wrong—very ungrateful to God for His love to me. He has borne so much for me, and I am so unwilling to bear a little for poor Ferrers. Oh what sinful feelings I have! My heavenly Father, teach me to feel pity for him, for he has no one to help him; help him, teach him, Thyself.”

Such, and many more, were the deep heart-breathings of the dear boy, and who ever sought for guidance and grace, and was rejected? and how unspeakably comfortable is the assurance, that for each of us there is with Christ the very grace we need.

The sullen fit was gone, and Louis was his own happy self again, when little Alfred came to tell him that Mr. Witworth had given the order to return home,—“And I came to tell you, dear Louis, for I wanted to walk home with you. What a beast that Ferrers is! see if I won't tell Edward of him.”

“Hush, Alfred!” said Louis, putting his finger on the little boy's mouth. “Do you know that God is very angry when we call each other bad names, and surely you do not wish to revenge yourself? I will tell you a very sweet verse which our Saviour said: ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you, that ye may be the children of your Father who is in heaven.’ ” As the little monitor spoke, the soft consciousness of the comfort of those sweet words rushed over his own mind, “children of your Father who is in heaven.”

“And am I a child—His child indeed! I will try to glorify my Saviour who has given me that great name.”

That is a sure promise that “they who water shall be watered,” and who is there that has endeavored to lead another heavenward, that has not felt, at one time or another, a double share of that living water refreshing his own soul?

With one arm round his little friend's neck, Louis wandered home, and, during the walk, easily persuaded Alfred not to say a word of what had passed; and as for Louis—oh, his eye was brighter, his step more buoyant, his heart full of gladness!

A little word, and I will close this long chapter. It is good for us to consider how unable we are to think and to do rightly ourselves: we must do so if we would be saved by Christ. When we have done all, we are unprofitable servants; but oh, how gracious—how incomprehensible is that love that puts into our minds good desires, brings the same to good effect, and rewards us for those things which He Himself has enabled us to do!

Chapter VIII.

“Charity suffereth long, and is kind.”—1 Cor. xiii. 4.

Louis entered the class-room sooner than usual one evening, and sitting down by his brother, spread before him a few strawberries and some sweet-cakes, inviting him and one of Salisbury's brothers who was on the other side of him to partake of them.

“What beauties they are!” exclaimed John Salisbury; “have you had a box, Louis? How did you get them?”

“Guess,” said Louis.

“Nay, I can't guess. Strawberries like these don't come at this time of the year in boxes.”

“I guess,” said Frank Digby from the opposite side of the table, in a tone as if he had been speaking to some one behind him. “Fudge has a dinner party to-night, hasn't he?”

“Yes,” said Louis, laughing; “how did you know that?”

“Oh, I have the little green bird that tells every thing,” replied Frank.

“What's that, Frank?” cried Salisbury; “Fudge a dinner party? How snug he's kept it!”

“Why you don't suppose that he's obliged to inform us all when he has some idea of doing the genteel,” remarked one of the first class.

“Are Hamilton and Trevannion invited?” asked Salisbury.

“In good troth! thou art a bat of the most blind species,” said Frank; “didn't you see them both just now in all their best toggery? Trevannion went up to his room just after school, and has, I believe, at last adorned his beauteous person to his mind—all graces and delicious odors.—Faugh! he puts me in mind of a hair-dresser's shop.”

“He declares that his new perfumes are something expressly superior,” said another. “He wouldn't touch your vulgar scents.”

“His millefleurs is at all events uncommonly like a muskrat,” said Salisbury.

“And,” remarked Frank, “as that erudite youth, Oars, would say, ‘puts me in mind of some poet, but I've forgotten his name.’ However, two lines borrowed from him, which my sister quotes to me when I am genteel, will do as well as his name:

“ ‘I cannot talk with civet in the room—

A fine puss gentleman, that's all perfume.’ ”

Reginald laughed. “I often think of the overrun flower-pots in the cottages at Dashwood, when Trevannion has been adorning himself. I once mortally offended him by the same quotation.”

“Had you the amazing audacity! the intolerable presumption!” cried Frank, pretending to start. “I perceive his magnificent scorn didn't quite annihilate you; I think, though, he was three hours embellishing himself to-night.”

“Frank, that's impossible!” cried Louis, laughing, “for it was four o'clock when he went, and it's only half-past six now.”

“Cease your speech, and eat your booty: I dare say it is sweet enough; sweetness is the usual concomitant of goods so obtained.”

“What do you mean, Frank?” asked Louis.

“Sweet little innocent; of course he don't know—no, in course he don't—how should he? they came into his hand by accident,” said Frank, mockingly; “I wish such fortunate accidents would happen to me.”

“They were given to me, Frank,” said Louis, quietly. “Mrs. Wilkinson gave them to me when she told me I must not stay in the study.”

“What a kind person Mrs. Wilkinson is!—oh! Louis, Louis, Tanta est depravitas humani generis!”

“Frank!” shouted Reginald, “at your peril!”

“Well, my dear—what, is my life in peril from you again? I must take care then.”

“Come, Frank, have done,” cried one of his class-fellows, “can't you leave Louis Mortimer alone—it doesn't signify to you.”

“I only meant to admonish him by a gentle hint, that he must not presume to contradict gentlemen whose honor and veracity may at least be on a par with his own.”

“Frank,” said Louis, “I cannot think how you can suppose me guilty of such meanness.”

“The least said, the soonest mended,” remarked Salisbury. “We must have large powers of credence where you are concerned. Clear off your old scores, and then we will begin a new one with you.”

Reginald started to his feet. “You shall rue this, Salisbury.”

“Two can play at your game,” rejoined Salisbury, rising.

Reginald was springing forward, but was checked by Louis, who threw himself on him. “Do not fight, dear Reginald—do not, pray.”

“I will—unhand me, Louis! I tell you I will—let me go.”

“Dear Reginald, not for me—wait a minute.”

At this moment the form behind them fell with a heavy bang, and in struggling to release himself, Reginald fell over it, dragging Louis with him. Louis was a little hurt, but he did not let go his hold. “Reginald,” he said, “ask Mrs. Wilkinson to say so herself; they will believe her, I suppose.”

The fall had a little checked his rage, and Reginald sat brooding in sullen anger on the ground. At last he started up and left the room, saying to Louis, “It's all your fault, then—you've no spirit, and you don't want me to have any.”

Louis mechanically assisted in raising the form, and stood silently by the table. He looked quickly round, and pushing the little share of his untasted fruit from him, went into the school-room. He did not recover his spirits again that evening, even when Reginald apologized to him for his roughness, pleading in excuse the extreme trouble it gave him to prevent himself from fighting with Salisbury.

As they went up stairs that night, in spite of the cautions given by the usher to be quiet, a sham scuffle ensued on purpose between Salisbury and Frank Digby, during which the former let his candle fall over the bannisters, and they were left in darkness; though, happily for the comfort of the doctor's dinner party, the second hall and back staircase arrangement effectually prevented the noise that ensued from reaching the drawing-room.

“Halloa there—you fellows! Mortimer, ahoa!” cried one of Salisbury's party; “bring your light.”

“You may come and fetch it if you want it,” shouted Reginald from his room.

“We're in the dark,” was the reply.

“So much the better,” said Reginald: “perhaps you will behave a little better now; if you want a light you may come and light your candle here.”

“Our candle's on the hall floor,” said another voice, amidst suppressed laughter.

“Pick it up, then.”

“We're desperately afraid of hobgoblins,” cried Frank, rushing into his room and blowing their candle out.

“What did you do that for, Frank?” asked several indignant voices.

“Because Salisbury and his myrmidons were coming to carry it off by a coup de main—he-he-he—” giggled Frank.

“And so you've given your own head a blow to punish your tooth! well done,” exclaimed another voice at the door.

“Peters, is that you?”

“What's to be done now?”

“How shall we get a light?”

“If you will give me the candle I will get one,” said Louis.

Accordingly, the extinguished candle was delivered into his hands, and he felt his way to the kitchen door, where he obtained a light, and then, picking up the fallen candle, tried to arrange its shattered form, and replace it. While thus employed, Ferrers joined him, and offered his aid, and on Louis' accepting it, said in a low tone,—

“Louis, I am a wretch, I am so very miserable. I can't think how you can bear so much from one who has never done you any thing but harm.”

Louis raised his head from his work in astonishment, and saw that Ferrers looked as he said, very miserable, and was deadly pale.

“I do so despise myself—to see you bearing all so sweetly, Louis. I should have been different, perhaps, if I had known you before—I love, I admire you, as much as I hate myself.”

“Are you coming with the candle there?” cried a voice from above: “Louis Mortimer and William Ferrers in deep confabulation—wonders will never cease.”

Ferrers jumped up and ran up stairs with his candle, and Louis followed more leisurely to his own room, nor could any thing induce him that night to tell a story. How long and earnest was his prayer for one who had injured him so cruelly, but towards whom he now, instead of resentment, felt only pity and interest!

Ferrers, after tossing from side to side, and trying all schemes for several hours, in vain, to drown his remorse in sleep, at last, at daybreak, sank into an uneasy slumber. The image of Louis, and his mute expression of patient sorrow that evening, haunted him, and he felt an indefinable longing to be like him, and a horror of himself in comparison with him. He remembered Louis' words, “Pray to God;” and one murmured petition was whispered in the stillness of the night, “Lord have mercy on a great sinner.”

Since his disgrace, Louis generally had his brother for a companion during their walks; but the next morning Ferrers joined him, and asked Louis to walk with him to the downs. They were both naturally silent for the beginning of the walk; but on Louis making some remark, Ferrers said, “I can't think of any thing just now, Louis; I have done every thing wrong to-day. My only satisfaction is in telling you how much I feel your goodness. I can't think how you can endure me.”

“Oh, Ferrers!” said Louis, “what am I that I should not bear you? and if you are really sorry, and wish to be better, I think I may some day love you.”

“That you can never do, Louis,—you must hate and despise me.”

“No, I do not,” said Louis, kindly; “I am very sorry for you.”

“You must have felt very angry.”

“I did feel very unkind and shocked at first,” replied Louis; “but by God's grace I learned afterwards to feel very differently, and you can't think how often I have pitied you since.”

“Pitied me!” said Ferrers.

“Oh yes,” replied Louis, sweetly; “because I am sure you must have been very unhappy with the knowledge of sin in your heart—I don't think there is any thing so hard as remorse to bear.”

“I did not feel much sorrow till you were so kind to me,” said Ferrers. “What a wretch you must think me!”

“I have sinned too greatly myself to judge very hardly of you; and when I think of all the love shown to me, I feel anxious to show some love to others; and I should be afraid, if I thought too hardly of you, I should soon be left to find out what I am.”

Ferrers did not reply; he did not understand the motives which induced Louis' forbearance and gentleness, for he was an entire stranger to religion, and never having met with any one resembling Louis, could not comprehend, though he did not fail to admire, his character, now its beauty was so conspicuously before him. He felt there was an immeasurable distance between them—for the first time he found himself wanting. Mentally putting himself in Louis' place, he acknowledged that no persuasion could have induced him to act so generously and disinterestedly; and knowing the keen sensitiveness of Louis to disgrace, he wondered how one so alive to the opinion of others, and naturally so yielding and wavering, could steadily and uncomplainingly persevere in his benevolent purpose; for not by word or sign did Louis even hint the truth to Reginald—the usual depository of his cares and secrets.

Louis, imagining the silence of his companion to proceed from shame and distress, proceeded after a few minutes to reassure him.

“You must not think that I am miserable, Ferrers, for lately I have been much happier than even when I was in favor, for now I do not care so much what the boys will think or say of me, and that thought was always coming in the way of every thing; and there are many things which make me very happy, often.”

“What things, Louis?”

“I do not think you would understand me,” replied Louis, timidly; “the things and thoughts that make me happy are so different from what we hear generally here.”

“But tell me, Louis. I want to know how it is you are so much better than any one else here. I want to be better myself.”

“Oh, dear Ferrers,” said Louis, gazing earnestly in Ferrers' face, “if you do want to be better, come to our Saviour, and He will make you all you want to be. It is the feeling of His goodness, and the happy hope of being God's children, and having all their sins forgiven, that make all God's people so happy; and you may have this happiness too, if you will. I do not think we think enough of our great name of Christian.”

“You read your Bible a great deal, Louis, don't you?”

“Not so much as I ought,” replied Louis, blushing, “but I love it very much.”

“It always seems to me such a dull book, I am always very glad when our daily reading's over.”

“I remember when I thought something in the same way,” said Louis: “only mamma used always to explain things so pleasantly, that even then I used to like to hear her read it to us. Papa once said to me that the Bible is like a garden of flowers, through which a careless person may walk, and notice nothing, but that one who is really anxious to find flowers or herbs to cure his disease, will look carefully till he finds what he wants, and that some happy and eager seekers will find pleasure in all.”

“Louis, you are very happy,” said Ferrers, “though very strange. I would give a world, were it mine, to lay this heavy burden of mine down somewhere, and be as light in disgrace as you are.”

Ferrers sighed deeply, and Louis said softly, “ ‘Come unto Him all ye that are heavy laden, and He will give you rest. His yoke is easy and His burden is light.’ ”

Here they parted. The last whispers of the Saviour's gracious invitation, those “comfortable words,” lingered in Ferrers' ears as he entered the house, and returned at night; but he did not throw himself and his burden at the Saviour's feet. And what hindered him? It was pride, pride—though forced to feel himself a sinner, pride still retained its hold, more feebly than before, but still as a giant.

Chapter IX.

The holidays were fast approaching. Ten days of the three weeks' examination had passed, and every energy was exerted, and every feeling of emulation called out, among those who had any hope of obtaining the honors held out to the successful candidates. It was surprising to see what could be, and what was, done. Even idle boys who had let their fair amount of talent lie dormant during the half year, now came forth, and, straining every nerve, were seen late and early at work which should have been gradually mastered during the last five months; denying themselves both recreation and sleep, with an energy, which, had it been earlier exerted in only half the degree, would have been highly laudable. Some of the latter, who possessed great talent, were successful, but generally the prizes fell to the lot of those who had throughout been uniformly steady, and who had gained an amount of thorough information which the eager study of a few weeks could not attain. Now there were beating hearts and anxious faces, and noisy summing up of the day's successes or losses, when the daily close of school proclaimed a truce to the emulous combatants. A few there were who appeared totally indifferent as to the issue of the contest, and who hailed the term of examination as entailing no set tasks to be said the ensuing day under certain penalties, and, revelling in extended play-hours, cared nothing for disgrace, having no character to lose.

Reginald bid fair to carry off all, or nearly all, the second-class honors; still, there were in his class several whose determined efforts and talents gave him considerable work in winning the battle.

Amongst all this spirited warfare, it is not to be supposed that Louis was tranquil; for, though naturally of an indolent temperament, there was in him a fund of latent emulation, which only wanted a stimulus such as the present to rouse him to action. Louis was a boy of no mean ability, and now, fired with the hope of distinguishing himself, and gaining a little honor that might efface the remembrance of past idleness, and give some pleasure to his dear parents, he applied himself so diligently and unremittingly to his studies during the last month, as to astonish his masters.

I do not mean to particularize the subjects for examination given by Dr. Wilkinson to the two upper classes, for this simple reason, that my classical and mathematical ignorance might cause mistakes more amusing to the erudite reader than pleasant to the author. It shall be sufficient to say, that whatever these subjects had been, the day's examination had gone through in a manner equally creditable to masters and pupils; and after a few turns in the fresh air when tea was over, a knot, comprising the greater part of the above-mentioned classes, assembled round their head man to congratulate him on his undoubted successes, and to talk over the events of the day elsewhere. Reginald and Louis could spare little time for talking, and were walking up and down the playground, questioning and answering each other with the most untiring diligence, though both of them had been up since four o'clock that morning. There were a few who had risen still earlier, and who now lay fast asleep on forms in the school-room, or endeavored to keep their eyes open by following the example of our hero and his brother.

“John's fast asleep,” said Salisbury, laughing; “he has a capital way of gaining time—by getting up at half-past three, and falling asleep at seven.”

“How does he stand for the prizes?” asked Smith.

“I'm sure I can't tell you; I suppose Mortimer's sure of the first classics and history—and he ought, for he's coming to us next half. John's next to him.”

“I hear little Mortimer's winning laurels,” remarked Trevannion.

“Oh! for him,” said Harris, a second-class boy, “because he's been such a dunce before;—I suspect Ferrers helps him.”

“Ferrers!” cried all at once, and there was a laugh—“Do you hear, Ferrers?”

“Of course I do,” replied Ferrers.

“He's not good-natured enough,” remarked another.

“He needs no help,” said Ferrers.

“You're sure of the mathematical prize, Ferrers; and Hamilton, of course, gets that for Latin composition.”

Ferrers did not reply—his thoughts had flown to Louis, from whom they were now seldom absent; and, though he had been generally successful, yet the settled gloom and anxiety of his manner led many to suppose that he entertained fears for the issue of his examination. There were others who imagined that there was some deeper cause of anxiety preying on his mind, or that he was suffering from illness and fatigue—and one or two made mysterious remarks on his intimacy with Louis, and wondered what all foreboded.

“I wonder who'll get the medal,” said one.

“Hamilton, of course,” replied Smith.

“You're out there,” said Frank Digby. “My magic has discovered that either the Lady Louisa or myself will obtain it. I admire your selfishness, young gentlemen—you assign to yourselves every thing, and leave us out of the question. If I can't be a genius, I mean to be a good boy.”

Many bitter remarks were then made on Louis' late good behavior, and a few upon his manner towards Ferrers, which, by some, was styled meanness of the highest degree.

Ferrers could not endure it—he left the circle and walked about the playground alone, full of remorse, thinking over every plan he had formed for making amends to Louis for all. He looked up once or twice with a gasping effort, and, oh! in the wrinkled and contracted forehead what trouble might be read. “Oh! that it were a dream,” he at last uttered, “that I could wake and find it a warning.”

There was a soft, warm hand in his, and Louis' gentle voice replied, “Do not grieve now about me, Ferrers, it will soon be over.”

Ferrers started and drew his hand away.

“You are not angry with me, are you?” said Louis; “I saw you alone, and I was afraid you wanted comfort—I did not like to come before, for fear the boys should make remarks, Reginald especially.”

Ferrers looked at Louis a minute without speaking, and then, pushing him off, walked quickly to the house, and did not show himself any more that evening.

Breakfast had long been finished, and the school was once more assembled; the second class was waiting impatiently on the raised end of the school-room for the doctor's entrance, or for a summons to his presence; and near, at their several desks, busily writing answers to a number of printed questions, sat the first class. It was nearly an hour past the time, and impatient eyes were directed to the clock over the folding-doors, which steadily marked the flying minutes.

“Where can the doctor be?” had been asked many times already, but no one could answer.

“We shall have no time—we shall not get done before night,” muttered several malcontents. “What can keep the doctor?”

At this moment the folding-doors were quickly flung open, and Dr. Wilkinson entered, and rapidly made his way towards the upper end of the school-room, but in such a state of unwonted agitation that the boys were by common consent hushed into silence, and every occupation was suspended to watch their master's movements. “How strange he looks!” whispered one; “something's the matter.” Dr. Wilkinson took no notice of the open eyes and mouths of his awe-struck pupils—all his aim seemed to be to reach his seat with the greatest speed.

“What's the row?” muttered Salisbury, in an under-tone to Hamilton, having some idea that the latter could afford a clue to the clearing up of the mystery. “Do you know of any thing, Hamilton?” Hamilton shook his head, and fairly stood up to see what was going on.

Dr. Wilkinson at length reached his place, and there stood a few minutes to collect himself. He then looked around, and asked, in a quick, low tone, for Louis Mortimer. Louis was almost behind him, and in some terror presented himself; though he was unconscious of any misdemeanor, he did not know what new suspicion might have attached to him. His gentle “Here, sir,” was distinctly heard in every part of the large room, in the breathless silence which now ruled. Dr. Wilkinson looked on him, but there was no anger in his gaze—his eyes glistened, and though there might be indignation mixed with the many emotions struggling for expression in his countenance, Louis felt, as he raised his timid eyes, that there was nothing now to fear. The doctor seemed incapable of speaking; after one or two vain efforts he placed both hands on Louis' head, and uttered a deep “God bless you!”

It would be impossible to describe the flood of rapture which this action poured upon poor Louis. The endurance of the last few weeks was amply repaid by the consciousness that somehow—and he did not consider how—his innocence was established, and now, in the presence of his school-fellows, publicly acknowledged.

For another minute Dr. Wilkinson stood with both hands resting on the head of his gentle pupil, then, removing one, he placed it under Louis' chin, and turned the glowing face up to himself and smiled—such a smile none remembered ever to have seen on that stern face.

“Have you found all out, sir?” cried Reginald, starting forward.

The doctor's hand motioned him back, and turning Louis round, so as to face the school, he said in a distinct, yet excited manner,

“Young gentlemen, we have been doing a wrong unconsciously, and I, as one of the first, am anxious to make to the subject of it the only reparation in my power, by declaring to you all that Louis Mortimer is entirely innocent of the offence with which he was charged; and I am sure I may say in the name of you all, as well as of myself, that we are very sorry that he should have suffered so much on account of it.”

Dr. Wilkinson proclaims Louis innocent.

There was a hum all around, and many of the lower school who knew nothing of the matter, began whispering among themselves. But all was hushed directly the doctor resumed his speech.

“There are some among you who are not aware, I believe, to what I allude; but those who do know, can bear testimony to the gentle endurance of false accusation that Louis Mortimer has exhibited during the whole time he has been made to suffer so severely for the fault of another. I cannot express my admiration of his conduct—conduct which I am sure has had for its foundation the fear and love of God. Stay, gentlemen,” said the doctor, stilling with a motion of his hand the rising murmur of approbation, “all is not yet told. This patient endurance might be lauded as an unusual occurrence, were there nothing more—but there is more. Louis Mortimer might have produced proofs of his innocence and cleared himself in the eyes of us all.”

“Louis!” exclaimed Reginald, involuntarily.

Louis' head was down as far as his master's hand would allow it, and deep crimson blushes passed quickly over the nearly tearful face—and now the remembrance of Ferrers, poor Ferrers, who had surely told all. Louis felt very sorry for him, and almost ashamed on his own account. He wished he could get behind his master, but that was impossible, and he stood still, as the doctor continued, “Three weeks ago Louis discovered that a little boy was in the study on the day when Kenrick's Key was abstracted, who could, of course, bring the desired information—the information which would have righted him in all our eyes; but mark—you who are ready to revenge injuries—because this would have involved the expulsion of one who had deeply injured him, he has never, by sign or word, made known to any one the existence of such information, persuading the little boy also to keep the secret; and this, which from him I should never have learned, I have just heard from the guilty person, who, unable to bear the remorse of his own mind, has voluntarily confessed his sin and Louis' estimable conduct. Young gentlemen, I would say to all of you, ‘Go and do likewise.’ ”

During this speech, Reginald had hardly been able to control himself, especially when he found that Louis had never mentioned his knowledge to himself; and now he sprang forward, unchecked by the doctor, and, seizing his brother, who was immediately released, asked, “Why did you not tell me, Louis? How was it I never guessed?”

While he spoke, there was a buz of inquiry at the lower end of the school, and those who knew the story crowded eagerly up to the dais to speak to Louis. Alfred's voice was very distinct, for he had worked himself up to his brother:

“Edward, tell me all about it. I'm sure if I'd known I'd have told. I didn't know why Louis was so joyful.”

Edward could answer nothing: his heart was as full as the doctor's, and with almost overflowing eyes and a trembling step, he pushed his way to Louis, who had thrown himself on Reginald and was sobbing violently.

“Louis, I'm very sorry,” said one. “Louis, you'll forgive me—I'm sure I beg pardon,” said other voices; and others added, “How good you are!—I shouldn't have done it.”

Louis raised his head from that dear shoulder, so often the place where it had rested in his troubles, and said, amidst his sobs,

“Oh! don't praise me. I was very unwilling to do it.”

“Let him alone,” said the doctor. “Reginald, take him up stairs. Gentlemen, I can do nothing more, nor you neither, I think, to-day. I shall give you a holiday for the remainder of it.”

There was a lull in the noise as Dr. Wilkinson spoke, but just as Louis was going out, there arose a deafening cheer, three times repeated, and then the boys picked up their books and hurried out of doors.

Louis' heart was full of gratitude, but at the same time it was sobered by the recollection of what Ferrers must now suffer, and the doubt he felt respecting his fate; and as soon as he had recovered himself, he sought the doctor to beg pardon for him.

“As he has voluntarily confessed his fault, I shall not expel him,” replied the doctor; “but I intend that he shall beg your pardon before the school.”

Louis, however, pleaded so earnestly that he had already suffered enough, and begged as a favor that nothing more might be said, that at length Dr. Wilkinson gave way.

The sensation that this event had caused in the school was very great: those who had been loudest in condemning Louis, were now the loudest in his praise, and most anxious to load him with every honor; and when he made his appearance among them with Reginald, whose manly face beamed with satisfaction and brotherly pride, he was seized by a party, and against his will, chaired round the playground, everywhere greeted by loud cheers, with now and then “A groan for Ferrers!”

“Louis, my man, you look sorrowful,” said Hamilton, as he was landed at last on the threshold of the school-room door.

“No, no,” said Salisbury, who had been foremost in the rioting; “cheer up, Louis—what's the matter?”

“I am afraid,” said Louis, turning away.

“Afraid! of what old boy?” said Salisbury. “Come, out with it.”

“I am afraid you will make me think too much of what ought not to be thought of at all—you are all very kind, but—”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Salisbury; “we're all so vexed that we have been such bears, and we want to make it up.”

“I am sure I do not think any thing about it now,” said Louis, holding out both his hands and shaking all by turns; “I am very happy. Will you let me ask one thing of you?”

“A hundred,” was the reply; “and we'll fly on Mercury's pennons to do your bidding.”

“Put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes,” said Frank Digby.

“When poor Ferrers comes among us, for my sake, do not take any notice of what has happened.”

There was a dark cloud on the faces before Louis, and Hamilton's lip trembled with scorn. No reply was made.

“I am the only one who has any thing to forgive; please promise me to leave him alone.”

“Then,” said Salisbury, abruptly, “whenever he comes in, I walk out, for I can't sit in the same room and be civil.

“I shan't be particularly inclined to favor him with my discourse,” said Frank; “so I promise to leave him alone.”

“Will you try to be the same as you were before? Do!” said Louis.

“That's impossible!” they all cried; “we cannot, Louis.”

“If you only knew how unhappy he has been, you would pity him very much,” said Louis, sorrowfully. “He has been so very sad—and do not talk of this to other people, please. I should be so much more happy if you would try to be the same to him.”

“All we can promise, is not to notice it, Louis,” said Hamilton; “and now, don't be sad any longer.”

Yet Louis was sad and anxious; though now and then a thought that all was clear, darted like a sunbeam across his mind, and called forth a grateful emotion. He longed for the holidays to come,—the favor he was in was almost painful.

Ferrers was invisible till the next evening, when he joined his class-fellows at prayers. In spite of the half-promise Louis had obtained from them, a studied unconsciousness of his presence, and a chilling coldness, greeted him. Louis alone stood by him, and looked in the deadly white countenance by him with heartfelt sympathy and compassion; and glanced at several of his companions to remind them of his wish. Ferrers seemed hardly the same; the proud, bullying air of arrogance had given place to a saddened, subdued despair; and yet his expression was far more pleasing in its humility than the natural one.

One or two, noticing Louis' anxiety, addressed him civilly, and even wished him “Good-night!” which he did not return by more than an inclination of the head. He expected no pity, and had nerved himself to bear the scorn he had brought on himself; but any attention was a matter of surprise to him.

Chapter X.

Wearily and joylessly had the last week of the examination passed away for Ferrers; although in one branch he had borne away the palm from all competitors. His confession had, in some measure, atoned for his great fault, in the eyes of his judicious master; for, however much it called for the severest reprehension, the fact of the mind not being hardened to all sense of shame and right feeling, made the doctor anxious to improve his better feelings; and, instead of driving them all away by ill-timed severity, considering how lamentably the early training of Ferrers had been neglected, he endeavored, after the first emotion of indignation had passed away, to rouse the fallen youth to a sense of honor and Christian responsibility; and sought to excite, as far as he was able, some feeling of compassion for him among his school-fellows.

There were, however, few among them who had learned the Christian duty of bearing one another's burdens; few among them, who, because circumstances over which they had had no control, had placed them out of the temptations that had overcome their penitent school-fellow, did not esteem themselves better than he, and look scornfully upon him, as though they would say with the proud Pharisee of old, “Stand by, for I am holier than thou!” And is it not the case around us generally? Alas! how apt we are all to condemn our fellow-creatures; forgetting that, had we been throughout similarly situated, our course might have been the same, or even worse. “Who is it that has made us to differ from another?”

Louis, as I have mentioned, felt very deeply for Ferrers; for, besides their late close connection, had he not known what it was to suffer for sin? He knew what it was to carry about a heavy heart, and to wake in the morning as if life had no joy to give; and he knew, too, what it was to lay his sins at a Saviour's feet, and to take the light yoke upon him. How anxious was he to lead his fellow-sinner there! Though his simple efforts seemed impotent at the time, years after, when his school-fellow had grown a steady and useful Christian, he dated his first serious impressions to this time of disgrace; and the remembrance of Louis' sweet conduct was often before him.

Louis' mind had been so chastened by his previous adversity that his present prosperity was meekly though thankfully borne. It came like sunshine after showers, cheering and refreshing his path, but not too powerful; for he was gradually learning more and more, to fear any thing that had a tendency to draw his mind to rest complacently on himself.

But the prize-day came—the joyful breaking-up-day—the day that was to bring his dear parents; and of all the bounding hearts, there were none more so than those of the two brothers. Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer had given their boys reason to expect them in the afternoon of that day, and they were to go from Clifton to Heronhurst before returning home.

Although Dr. Wilkinson's breaking-up-day was not ostensibly a public day, yet so many of the pupils' friends claimed admittance to the hall on the occasion, that it became so in fact, and was usually very respectably attended. Many of the doctor's old pupils came, to recall their old feelings, by a sight of this most memorable exhibition. And on this day, Vernon Digby was present with a younger brother, not to witness Frank's triumph, for that young gentleman had none to boast of, but to look on the theatre of his former fame, and to see how his place was now filled.

Dr. Wilkinson's high desk had been removed from the dais, and in its place stood a long table covered with a red cloth, on which were arranged a number of handsomely bound books of different sizes; and in front of the dais, in a semicircular form, were placed the rows of seats for the boys. On each side of this semicircle, and behind and parallel with Dr. Wilkinson's seat, was accommodation for the spectators. The room was in the most inviting order, and had been hung with garlands of flowers by the boys. At eleven o'clock the pupils assembled, and under the inspection of two of the under masters, seated themselves in the places assigned them, the little boys being placed in the front row.

As the exact fate of each was unknown, though tolerably accurately guessed, there was much anxiety. Some of the youths were quite silent and pale, others endeavored to hide their agitation by laughing and talking quietly, and some affected to consider their nearest companion as more sure than themselves. Even Hamilton was not free from a little nervousness, and though he talked away to Vernon Digby, who was sitting by him, he cast more than one fidgety glance at the red-covered table, and perceptibly changed color when the class-room door opened to allow the long train of ladies and gentlemen to enter, and closed after Dr. Wilkinson, and a few of his particular friends, among whom were two great scholars who had assisted in the examination of the past week.

When every one was comfortably settled, Dr. Wilkinson leaned forward over the table, and drew a paper towards him. His preliminary “hem” was the signal for many fidgety motions on the forms in front of him, and every eye was riveted on him as he prefaced his distribution of the prizes by a short statement of his general satisfaction, and a slight notice of those particular points in which he could desire improvement. He then spoke of his pleasure at the report his friends had made of the proficiency of the upper classes, and particularly alluding to the first class, stopped and mentioned by name those who had especially distinguished themselves. Among these, as a matter of course, Hamilton stood foremost, and carried away the prize for Latin composition, as well as another. Ferrers gained that for mathematics—and two other prizes were awarded to the next in order. Dr. Wilkinson mentioned Frank Digby as having taken so high a place during the examination, as to induce one of the gentlemen who assisted him to consider him entitled to one of the classical prizes; but the doctor added that Frank Digby's indifference and idleness during the term had made him so unwilling that he should, by mere force of natural ability, deprive his more industrious class-fellows of a hard-earned honor, that he had not felt himself justified in listening to the recommendation, but hoped that his talents would, the following term, be exerted from the beginning, in which case, he should have pleasure in awarding to him the meed of successful application.

Frank colored, half angrily, but said, sotto voce,

“I don't care—I just like to see whether I can't do as well as any one else without fagging.”

Vernon was half provoked and half amused at his brother's discomfiture.

Then came Reginald's turn, and he carried off three out of the four prizes of his class, leaving one for John Salisbury.

As each one was called up to receive his reward, an immense clapping and stamping took place, and Louis, all exuberance, stamped most vigorously when his brother and his particular friends went up. There were very slight manifestations when poor Ferrers was summoned, but Louis exerted himself so manfully in the applauding department, that the contagion spread a little before the despised recipient was seated.

The other classes were taken in order; and when all was finished, Dr. Wilkinson took up a little morocco case, and, after clearing his throat once or twice, began anew:

“There remains now but one reward to be assigned, but it is the greatest of all, though undoubtedly that one which it is the most difficult to adjudge rightly. It is the medal for good conduct. Hitherto it has been my practice never to give it to any one who has not been with me the whole term, but on the present occasion I am inclined to depart from my custom in favor of a young gentleman whose conduct has been most praiseworthy, though he has only been with me since Easter. Before adjudging it, I will, however, appeal to the young gentlemen themselves, and ask them who they think among them is the most deserving of this honor?”

Dr. Wilkinson paused, and immediately a shout, led by Hamilton, arose, of “Louis Mortimer.”

“I expected it,” said the doctor, with a smile: “Louis Mortimer has been placed, perhaps, in a situation in the school a little beyond him, and has, therefore, made no great figure in the examination, but of his conduct I can speak in the highest terms, and believe that his sense of duty is so strong that he only wants the conviction that it is his duty to exert himself a little more, to make him for the future as habitually industrious as he has been during the last six weeks.—Louis Mortimer!”

Almost overcome with astonishment and delight, Louis hardly understood the summons, but Reginald whispered, “Go, Louis, the doctor calls you,” and all made way for him with the most pleasant looks of sympathy and congratulation. His modesty and elegance prepossessed the spectators greatly in his favor, as he passed timidly along the ranks to the table. Dr. Wilkinson smiled kindly on him as he delivered the bright silver medal, in its claret-colored case, saying as he did so,

“I have the greatest pleasure in giving this to you, and trust that you will be encouraged, when you look on it, to go on as you have begun.”

Louis was covered with blushes—he bowed, and as he turned away, the most deafening applause greeted him; and, as the last prize was now given, the boys left their seats and mingled among the company. Louis was drawn immediately into a little côterie, composed of Hamilton, Reginald, his three cousins, and one or two others, all of whom congratulated him upon his distinction.

“And so, Louis, you are the hero,” said Vernon; “and what is the drama in which you have been acting so much to your credit?”

“Too long a tale to tell now,” replied Hamilton, smiling on Louis; “we will talk over it by and by. We have been treating him very ill, Digby, but next half-year we shall understand him better—shall we not, Louis?”

Louis was so full of delight that he could hardly speak—it was especially a happy moment to stand before his cousin Vernon with a right fame and well-established character.

“I said my magic knew who would gain the medal,” said Frank.

“But your magic did not anticipate such magnificent honors for yourself, I imagine,” said Vernon.

“I was a little out,” said Frank, carelessly; “for it has proved that Lady Louisa has all the goodness, and I the genius. My head is quite overloaded with the laurels Fudge heaped on me: I shan't be able to hold it up these holidays.”

“A good thing that something will press it down: it is generally high enough,” remarked Hamilton.

“How delighted father and mother will be to hear of your industry!” said Vernon.

“I am sure,” replied the incorrigible youth, “they ought to be proud of having a son too clever to win the prizes. Louis, it puts me in mind of the man in your tale, who had to bind his legs for fear he should outrun the hares. I am, however, heartily glad for you, and amazingly sorry we should have so misunderstood you.”

“Louis Mortimer,” cried a little boy, very smartly dressed, “mamma wants to look at your medal—will you come and show it to her?”

“And go off, Reginald, with him, and tell Lady Stanhope all the news,” said Vernon, as Louis went away with little Stanhope; “I will come and pay my respects as soon as it is convenient for me to be aware of her ladyship's presence.”

Louis' medal was examined and passed from hand to hand, and many compliments were made on the occasion. Lady Stanhope was very kind, and would hear the history, a command Reginald was by no manner of means unwilling to obey, though he suppressed the name of the guilty party. The doctor was in great request, for many of the ladies were very anxious to know more of “that lovely boy,” but he was very guarded in his accounts of the matter, though bearing the strongest testimony to Louis' good conduct. He turned to Mr. Percy, who was present, and said, quietly, “That, sir, is the boy you mentioned to me at Easter; the son of Mr. Mortimer, of Dashwood.”

The excitement was almost too much for Louis, tried as he had been lately by unusual fagging and early rising. He was glad to get away into the playground, and after watching one or two departures he ran wildly about, now and then laughing aloud in his delight, “Oh! papa and mamma, how glad they will be!” and then the well-spring of deep gladness seemed to overflow, and the excess of happiness and gratitude made him mute. His heart swelled with emotions too great for any words; a deep sense of mercies and goodness of which he was unworthy, but for which he felt as if he could have poured out his being in praise. Oh the blessing of a thankful heart! How happy is he who sees his Father's hand in every thing that befalls him, and in whom each mercy calls forth a gush of gratitude!

“Ten thousand thousand precious gifts

My daily thanks employ;

Nor is the least a thankful heart,

To taste those gifts with joy.”

—Addison.

The playground was empty, for the boys were either engaged with their friends, or else departing; and Louis, from his little nook, saw many vehicles of different descriptions drive away from the door. When the dinner-bell rang he re-entered the house, but the dinner-table looked very empty—there was not half the usual party.

“Where have you been, Louis?” asked Reginald, as he entered; “I have been looking everywhere for you. Hamilton was quite vexed to go away without bidding you goodbye, and he begged me to do it for him.”

“I am very sorry, indeed,” said Louis; “I have been in the playground. Reginald, does it not make you feel very pleasant to see the heap of boxes in the hall? I stood a long time looking at our directions.”

“I am almost cracked,” cried Reginald, joyously;—

“ ‘Midsummer's coming again, my boys,

Jolly Midsummer and all its joys!’ ”

How far Reginald's reminiscences of his holiday song might have continued, I cannot pretend to say, had it not been interrupted by a desire from the presiding master, that “he would recollect himself, and where he was;” but order was out of the question, most of the party being in Reginald's condition—and, after several useless appeals to the sense of gentlemanly decorum proper to be observed by the noisy party, Mr. Witworth found his best plan would be to let every thing pass that did not absolutely interfere with the business in hand, and, dinner being over, the ill-mannered troop dispersed. Several of them, among whom were Reginald and Louis, stopped in the hall to feast their eyes on the piles of trunks and portmanteaus; and Reginald discovered that a direction was wanting on one of theirs; “And I declare, Louis, see what Frank has been doing.”

Louis laughed, as he perceived that one of the directions on his luggage was altered to “Lady Louisa Mortimer,” and ran away to rectify it. When he returned, the party in the hall was considerably enlarged, and Ferrers came towards him to wish him good-bye. “Good-bye, Louis, I am coming back next half-year,” he said, in a low tone; “and you must help me to regain my character.” Louis squeezed his hand, and promised to write to him, though he hoped, he said, that he should not come back himself; and when Ferrers left the hall, the business of affixing the necessary directions went on very busily. Reginald was in a state of such overflowing delight, as to be quite boisterous, and now and then burst out into snatches of noisy songs, rendered remarkably effective by an occasional squeak and grunt, which proclaimed his voice to be rather unmanageable.

“Now, Louis, here's a piece of string, and my knife.

‘Christmas is coming again, my boys!’ ”

“Christmas, Reginald—Midsummer!” cried Louis, laughing.

“Well then, ah, well! tie it tight.

‘Midsummer's coming again, my boys,

Jolly Midsummer, and all its joys;

And we're all of us cracked, so we'll kick up a noise.

Chorus. Ri-toorul-loor, rul-loor, rul-loor-rul. Hip, hip, hurrah!

Hollo!’ ”

The sensible chorus was shouted at the utmost pitch of the voices of the assembled youths, who waved hats, hands, and handkerchiefs, during the process.

“Bravissimo!” exclaimed Reginald, quite red with his exertions, and beaming with excitement. “But my beautiful voice is very unruly; the last few times I have tried to sing, it has been quite disobedient. I think it must be cracked, at last.”

“Are you not pleased?” said Louis, archly.

“Not particularly,” replied Reginald.

“You said you should be, last Christmas. Do you remember the ladies at grandpapa's?”

“Well, there is that comfort at any rate,” said Reginald, “we shan't have any more of their humbug; but think of the dear old madrigals, and—it's no laughing matter, Mr. Louis, for all your fun.”

“Acknowledge, then, that you spoke rashly, when you said you should be glad of it,” said Louis, who was full of merriment at his brother's misfortune.

And now Vernon, Arthur, and Frank Digby pressed forward, to bid good-bye.

As Vernon shook Louis' hand, he said, “I shall see you at Heronhurst, I suppose.”

“I suppose I mustn't dare to go,” said Frank.

“And now I shall go and gather some of those white roses by the wall, for mamma,” said Louis. “I hope it won't be very long, Reginald, they must be here soon—oh, how delightful it will be!”

Louis ran off, and succeeded in finding a few half-blown roses for his dear mother, and was engaged in carefully cutting off the thorns, when one of his school-fellows ran up to him, and called out that his father and mother were come.

“Papa and mamma! Where's Reginald?” he cried, and flew over the playground without waiting for an answer. “Where are papa and mamma? Where is Reginald?” he cried, as he ran into the hall. His hurried question was as quickly answered; and Louis, jumping over the many packages, made his way to the drawing-room. Here were his dear father and mother, with Dr. Wilkinson. Reginald had been in the room several minutes; and when Louis entered, was standing by his mother, whose arm was round him, and close behind him stood his father.

“My Louis!” was his mother's affectionate greeting, and the next moment he was in her arms, his own being clasped tightly round her neck, and he could only kiss her in speechless joy, at first; and then, when the kind arms that strained him to her bosom were loosened, there was his dear father, and then words came, and as he looked with flashing eyes and crimsoned cheek, from one to the other, he exclaimed, “Oh, mamma! I have a medal—mamma, it is all come out! Papa, I am innocent; I have a character now! Oh, dear mamma, I said it would—I am quite cleared!”

His head sank on his father's shoulder; a strange, dull sound in his head overpowered him; a slight faintness seemed to blow over his face; his eyes were fixed and glassy, and he became unconscious. Mr. Mortimer changed color, and hastily catching the falling boy, he carried him to the sofa. Dr. Wilkinson sent Reginald immediately for some water, but before he could return, and almost before Mrs. Mortimer could raise her dear boy's head from the pillow to her shoulder, the color came again, and his eyes resumed their natural expression.

“What was the matter, my darling?” said his mother, kissing him.

“I don't know, mamma,” replied Louis, sitting up. “I only felt giddy, and something like a little wind in my face.”

“I think he has been overwrought,” said Dr. Wilkinson, kindly; “he has gone through a great deal lately. We will take him up stairs and let him lie down; I think he wants a little quiet.”

“I am quite well now,” said Louis.

“I will sit by your side; you had better go up stairs, dear,” said his mother.

Louis yielded, and Mr. Mortimer assisted him up stairs, despite his declarations that he was quite strong and well, and, being laid on a bed, Mrs. Mortimer stationed herself by his side.

All they said I have not time to relate, but long Louis lay with his mother's hand in both of his, telling her of the events of the last two months, and often she bent her head down and kissed his broad forehead and flushed cheek; and when she would not let him talk any more, he lay very passively, his eyes filling with grateful tears, and now and then in the overflowing of his heart, raising them to his mother, with “Mamma, thank God for me. Oh, how very grateful I ought to be!”

At length he fell asleep, and his mother sat still, watching the quiet face, and the glittering tear-drop that trembled on his eyelash, and she too felt that her mercies were very great—she did thank God for him, and for herself.

Chapter XI.

“Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life.”—Prov. iv. 23.

After a long and tedious journey Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, with their two boys, reached Heronhurst, where they met with the affectionate welcome usually given by Sir George and Lady Vernon to all so nearly related to them. The castle was full of visitors, amongst whom were Lady Digby and her two eldest daughters, and many young people—personages grandmamma never forgot in the holidays, however unimportant they may appear in the eyes of some. Children liked to come to Heronhurst, for there was always so much mirth and amusement, and Lady Vernon was so remarkably clever in arranging pleasant pic-nics and excursions. Vernon and Frank Digby arrived the same day as Mr. Mortimer, a few hours before him, and as Vernon had announced the fact of Louis' having gained the medal, every one was prepared to receive our hero with due honor.

It was with no little satisfaction that Louis felt in the hearty shake of the hand, and the kind tone, that he was now more than re-established in his grandfather's good opinion. Had it not been for the salutary effects of his former disgrace, and the long trial he had lately undergone, there would have been great danger now of his falling into some open fault, for he was praised so much by his kind relations, and flattered by the company, and his medal had so often to be exhibited, that it needed much that in himself he did not possess, to guard him from falling into the error of imagining himself to be already perfect.

It was settled that there was to be a fête on the 27th, which some of my readers may remember was Louis' birthday; and Sir George, anxious to efface from his grandson's memory any painful reminiscences of the last, arranged the order of things much in the same manner, taking care that Louis' protegés, the school-children, should not be forgotten.

This news had just been communicated to Louis by his grandfather, with many expressions of commendation, and he was in a state of complacent self-gratulation, that feeling which would have led him to say, “By the strength of my hand I have done this;” instead of, “My strength will I ascribe unto the Lord,” when a kind, soft hand, glittering with rings, was laid upon his arm, and the pleasant voice of his old friend Mrs. Paget greeted him.

“So, Master Louis, we are to have a fête, I hear. Are you really fourteen on the 27th? Come and sit down and tell me all about your school. I knew you would soon be a favorite. What's all this long story that everybody talks of and nobody knows? I said I would ask you, the most proper person to know it; and I know you will tell me the secret.”

“It is no secret, ma'am,” said Louis; “I would rather not talk of it.”

“Just like your own modest little self: and it might not be kind to tell every one all the story, perhaps; but with an old friend like me, you know you are safe.”

“But, ma'am, you might forget when every one is talking—”

Louis stopped and colored, for he thought it seemed rather conceited to imagine every one must be talking of him, and he corrected himself,

“At least, dear Mrs. Paget, I had much rather not, I mean.”

“You are a dear, kind little boy,” said the injudicious lady; “I know very well you are afraid of committing that naughty school-fellow of yours. I can't understand about the keys—I heard your brother saying something about them—what keys? Were they the keys of the boy's desks?”

Louis could hardly help laughing—“No, ma'am, Kenrick's keys.”

“And who is Kenrick—one of the masters?”

“It is a book, ma'am—a key to the Greek exercises.”

“Oh, I see—a sort of translation—well, he stole this from Dr. Wilkinson, and said you'd done it?”

“No, not that,” replied Louis. “He took it out of the study. Some of the boys were in the habit of using the keys when they could.”

“Well, there was nothing so very terrible in it, poor fellows. I dare say the lessons are very hard. I think every boy ought to have an English translation of those frightful Latin and Greek books.”

Louis opened his eyes and quietly said—

“We think it very dishonorable and unfair, ma'am.”

“Well, if I understood all about it, I might too, I dare say. I only see a little bit, but of course you know the rules and all the rest,—well, was that all?”

“No, ma'am,” said Louis, uneasily.

“He said you had taken it, I dare say?”

“Something like it,” replied Louis. “He slipped it among my books to hide it, ma'am, but not intending to do me any harm; and when it was found he was afraid to speak the truth.”

“And so you bore the blame—and did you not try to clear yourself?”

“To be sure, ma'am; but he was older and better known than I was, and so he was believed.”

“And you couldn't help yourself? I thought you bore it out of kindness to him.”

“Afterwards I found it out, ma'am. I found that Alfred Hamilton knew something about it.”

“Who is Alfred Hamilton?” asked Mrs. Paget.

“A little boy, ma'am, at school.”

“And he found it out—and didn't he tell of it?”

“I did not wish him,” replied Louis, with less reserve. “It would have been very unkind to poor Ferrers; he would have been expelled. Alfred was going to tell, but you would not have wished him to do it, I am sure.”

Ah Louis, Louis! anxiety for Ferrers' reputation was quite lost in the selfish desire of admiration. Mrs. Paget put her arm round him, and her kindly eyes nearly overflowed with affectionate emotion, for she, poor lady, could only see the surface; the inward workings of the little vain heart were hid from her, or she would have been surprised to find under the appearance of sweetness and humility, Louis was only thinking of seeming lovely and amiable in her eyes.

“No, my darling, I know you could not do any thing unkind—you are a sweet, dear creature, and I am sure I love you; and so this Master Ferrers never spoke the truth, and you bore the blame?”

“He did at last, ma'am, at the end of the half-year: but it was not very long to bear it, only five weeks.”

“Only! I wonder you could have done it for so long; Ferrers, that was the name, was it?”

“If you please, don't mention it,” exclaimed Louis, with unaffected earnestness; “I did not mean to say his name. Please, dear Mrs. Paget, do not mention it. He is so very sorry, and confessed all so handsomely—I think you would like him if you knew all about him, for he is not so bad as others make him out to be.”

Mrs. Paget had only time to give him a kind of half promise, when she was called away; and Louis, left to himself, became aware of the vanity his foolish heart had persuaded him was Christian kindness. His enjoyment was destroyed that evening, for he was full of anxiety lest Mrs. Paget should talk of the matter, and he wandered restlessly about the rooms, longing for an opportunity of speaking a kind word for Ferrers, wishing vainly that what he had said could be undone. He felt more than ever the necessity of keeping a watch over his heart and tongue, and almost inclined to despair of ever overcoming the many stumbling-blocks in the way of attaining to holiness. Thus, little by little, is the evil of our hearts disclosed to us, and the longer the true Christian lives, the less he finds to be satisfied with in himself; not that he is further removed from holiness, but he has more sight given him to know what he really is by nature—and the nearer he arrives to the perfect day, the greater is the light to disclose his own deformities, and the exceeding loveliness of the righteousness he possesses in Jesus his Lord.

Louis, in common with the young visitors at Heronhurst, thought often and expectantly of his birthday—and when the morning at last arrived, he awoke much earlier than usual, with a strong sensation of some great happiness. The light on the blind of his window was not bright, nor promising brightness—and when he jumped up and ran to examine the day, expressing to his brother his hope that the weather was propitious, he found to his dismay that the rain was pouring in torrents, and the dull unbroken clouds gave but little promise of a change in the prospect.

“Oh! Reginald, it's raining, raining hard.”

“How very provoking!” cried Reginald. “Let me see—there is not much hope neither—how exceedingly tiresome—there's an end to our fun—who'd have thought it—how very—”

“Hush!” said poor Louis, who was very much disappointed, “it is not right to say tiresome when it pleases God that the weather shall not suit us.”

“I can't help it,” said Reginald.

“I dare say we shall be very happy. I am most sorry about the school-children.”

“I don't care a fig about them,” said Reginald, impatiently; “there's that cricket match, and all.”

“What, not the poor little things, Reginald? just think how they have been expecting this day—it is quite an event for them, and we have so many pleasures: I dare say you will have the cricket the first fine day.”

Reginald felt rather ashamed, and yet unwilling to acknowledge himself in the wrong; therefore he satisfied himself with remarking, that Louis did not like cricket, and he didn't care about the children, and there was no difference.

Louis' attention was at that moment attracted by something on the table. “Oh! here is something for me, Reginald!—A beautiful new Bible from dear papa and mamma—and a church service from grandmamma, and what's this?—‘The Lady of the Manor’ from uncle and aunt Clarence; how kind, look Reginald! and here's another—a beautiful little red and gold book, ‘Mrs. Rowe's Poems,’ the book I am so fond of—from you: oh! thank you, dear Reginald.”

“And many happy returns of the day, dear Louis,” said Reginald, who had by this time completely recovered his ordinary good-humor.

At the foot of the stairs, when he descended, Louis met some of the young party, who hardly waited to offer the compliments of the day before they loudly expressed the disappointment felt by each at the unfavorable weather. “Raining, raining—nothing but splashing and dark clouds—so tiresome, so disappointing—we shall be obliged to stay in-doors,” sounded round him in different keys as they marched in close phalanx to the breakfast-room, where they found Bessie Vernon, a little girl of seven years old, kneeling on a chair at the window, singing, in the most doleful accents,

“Rain, rain, go to Spain,

And mind you don't come back again.”

“Good morning, Bessie,” said Louis.