Louis' School Days: A Story for Boys

by E. J. May

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.

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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.

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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.

“Oh! Louis, many happy returns. I haven't got a present for you, because I hadn't money enough.”

“Never mind,” said Louis; “I would rather have your love and kisses than any present.”

“And I will give you many, many kisses,” cried the little girl, fulfilling her promise in good earnest.

“My love and a kiss,” said her brother; “that's what Bessie always sends at the end of her letters: isn't it, Bessie, I send you my love and a kiss?”

“Well, I mean it,” said Bessie, “and you needn't laugh. I wonder what we shall do to-day—dear me—I think, though, there's a little lighter bit of sky over the oak.”

“Let me see—where are my spectacles?” said Frank.

“Not much hope, I fear,” said Sir George's hearty voice behind her. “Not much hope, Bessie. What an array of long faces. How do you do? Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I hope I see you in health and spirits. A happy birthday, and many of them to you, my boy; the rain does not appear to have damped you so much as some of your play-fellows—well, Miss Bessie?”

“Grandpapa, grandpapa! what shall we do? you must find some pleasure for us,” cried Bessie, clinging round her grandfather's knees, and looking up very beseechingly in the kind face so far above her.

“Ah, well—we'll see, we'll see—now let me go to breakfast; when that important business is dispatched, and grandmamma makes her appearance, we will find something to do.”

Fortified with this promise, an excellent breakfast was eaten by the martyrs to disappointment, and then, after some consultation, it was decided that the band should be in attendance in the hall, and a messenger should be sent forthwith to command the attendance of the school-children at a banquet in the same place, and Lady Vernon was of opinion that with charades, a magic lantern, bagatelle, tivoli, and dolls, a very merry morning might be spent. The young people then dispersed in search of their own peculiar amusements. Some of the young men went into the billiard-room, and a few chess parties were formed. Some began to act charades for the edification of such among the elders as would choose to make an audience. A still larger party adjourned to the school-room to play at houses with their dolls, and two tables were soon spread with ground plans of three magnificent establishments for paper ladies and gentlemen, by three young ladies between the ages of twelve and eight, assisted by Mr. Frank Digby.

At one o'clock they went to the hall, where the band was playing a merry air. Here a long table was spread, well covered with a nice plain dinner, and the school-children came two-and-two into the hall, just after the visitors had arrived.

When all were seated, the girls at the upper, and the boys at the lower end, Mr. Mortimer came forward and said grace for them, and then the viands disappeared with great rapidity. Some of the castle children, headed by Louis, asked to be allowed to wait on them, and, the permission being given, they made themselves very busy, though it must be confessed that they were sometimes sadly in the servants' way. Sir George Vernon went round the table very majestically, and now and then spoke a word or two to one of the children—words which were treasured up in their memories for many a long day, though they meant little or nothing; but it is so easy to create a pleasant and grateful feeling.

Many of the spectators, including nearly all the gentlemen, had left the hall very soon after the commencement of the feast, and now a summons was given to the little ones of the castle to their own dinner. Louis, not being included in the little ones, went with the school-children into a large empty room, and with the help of his father and one or two others, exerted himself successfully for their entertainment, until his friends joined them, and, the room being darkened, the magic lantern was displayed. The humble little guests then, being supplied each with a cake and some fruit, returned to their homes, quite delighted with the pleasures of the day. Frank and the three young ladies enjoyed an hour's amusement during the late dinner; for the good-natured youth had yielded to the pressing invitation of the merry little party, and dined with them at two, to their great satisfaction, notwithstanding the declaration of some, that he was “a great tease.”

The great dinner was much earlier than usual, to allow of the ball, which began at seven o'clock for the convenience of the younger ones, and was continued until eleven, at which time, though he had been very happy, Louis was very tired, and could not help thinking, that, after all, a whole day of pleasure-seeking in this manner, was very fatiguing and unsatisfying. He could hardly keep his eyes open, when Mrs. Paget seized him, and after a few compliments on his dancing, insisted upon hearing him sing “Where the bee sucks.”

Louis complied as well as he was able, and though his sleepiness robbed his song of some power, its sweetness not only satisfied the flattering lady, but a more unscrupulous auditor who stood behind him in the person of his grandfather.

“Your mother taught you to sing, Louis?” said he.

“Miss Spencer taught me,” replied Louis.

“The mechanism, perhaps, but it's your mother's teaching. The taste, madam,” said Sir George, turning to Mrs. Paget.

“Both Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer are first-rate amateurs,” said Mrs. Paget.

“Mrs. Mortimer has great talent,” replied Sir George; “and she has done something with this boy. I suppose you are very fond of music, Louis?”

Louis answered in the affirmative, and Sir George added—

“I shall give you a treat. You shall go on Sunday to A——, and hear the singing at the church there. The little boys sing very sweetly. Have you heard them ma'am?”

“No, I never have.”

“Then I think it would be a wise step to pay a visit there during divine service next Sunday. The church is worth looking at,—a good specimen of the early English style of architecture. We can make up a little party to go, if you would like it.”

Mrs. Paget expressed her entire approbation of the scheme, and Louis, too sleepy to think much of it, wished her and Sir George good night, and went to bed.

The next day, the rain continuing, in the morning Louis enjoyed The Lady of the Manor in his own room. He was still much excited by the yesterday's pleasure, and felt unsettled, and disinclined to employ himself steadily with any thing. In the afternoon, as the weather was fine, his mother insisted on his taking a walk, and Reginald and Vernon Digby accompanied him. They had a great scramble through the hilly district that surrounded Heronhurst, and merrily the talk (we will not dignify it by the name of conversation) continued. As they re-entered the grounds it fell upon the scheme of visiting the church, and during the light and common-place discussion that ensued, it struck Louis that there might be something wrong in the plan. He became very silent, and when he reached his room, quietly thought over the matter, and came to the conclusion that, though they intended going to church, yet the motives that induced their doing so were not to the glory of God, and that to employ servants for such an end, on God's holy day, was certainly wrong. This was his first impression; and when he next saw Reginald, he told him what he had been thinking of.

“Well, but Louis, you know it won't make any difference whether we go or not, and so we shan't engage the servants. I don't see why, because you like nice singing, you should go to the chapel where they screech so abominably.”

Louis was silent, for he hardly liked to oppose his reasons to Reginald's blunt speech, and Reginald, dismissing the subject from his mind, began to talk of something else. He ran on very volubly for a little while, without receiving any interruption from his brother, and, looking at him, he saw very plainly that Louis was not paying the slightest attention to him.

“What is the matter, Louis? How dull you are!”

“Nothing,” replied Louis.

“Nothing?” repeated Reginald; “Something, you ought to say. I know you are making yourself miserable about this church-going, and what need is there? We are going to church, and we can't prevent the carriage going. If it were on purpose for us it would be different.”

“But there will be a great deal of nonsense, I know,” said Louis, uneasily. “It seems very much like going to a show place. I hope I shall be able to ask mamma about it.”

“As to nonsense,” replied Reginald, “when do we have any thing else here?—you can't make Dashwood of Heronhurst, and I think if you go to hear such beautiful singing, it is more likely to put good thoughts into your head than those lovely singers here; and then, Mr. Perrott is quite a famous man; everybody likes him better than Mr. Burton—you are too scrupulous, Louis. I think, sometimes, you are guilty of over-conscientiousness.”

Before Louis could reply, some of their young friends entered the room, and one thing followed another so quickly that Louis had no time to think clearly on the subject till he went to bed; but when all was silent and nothing interfered with his thoughts, his anxious mind ran over all that had passed, and turn it which way he would, it still seemed wrong. What with this feeling, and the fear of making his grandfather angry, Louis felt very uncomfortable; and then came Reginald's sophistry, and Louis almost argued himself into the belief that his brother was right and he too scrupulous: and when he tried to pray for direction he did not feel sincere, for he was conscious of a wish to go to the church, and a great dread of offending his grandfather. After some hours' restless consideration, he dropped asleep, having made up his mind to consult his father and mother, and to abide by their counsel. The next day, however, he had no opportunity of speaking to them alone, and Saturday night found him as miserably undecided as before. “Oh dear, if there were any one I could ask!” There was One, and though aid was feebly asked, it was granted; and with much fear and anxiety, Louis declined accompanying the party to A—— church the next morning.

Vernon stared, and Reginald tried in vain to persuade him to alter his mind,—but he stood firm, and turning away from them, afraid to trust himself, stayed up stairs till the castle chapel bells began to ring, and then hastened down with a happy, free, and light heart, to join his mother.

“Hey-day, Louis!” exclaimed his grandfather; “I thought you were off long ago. You're too late: the carriage has been gone this hour. What's the meaning of these late hours, sir?”

“I was up quite early, grandfather,” said Louis.

“Then how was it you let them go without you?”

“Because I had rather not go, sir,” said Louis, with a heightened color.

“And pray why could you not say so sooner?—you are the most uncertain fellow;—not the smallest dependence ever to be placed upon you. Do you know your own mind, Mr. Louis?”

“Not always at first,” replied Louis, in a low tone.

“Hold up your head and speak out. And pray why has your weather-cock mind changed? What new wind has blown you round now, eh?”

“It's Sunday, grandpapa,” said Louis, looking up at his mother with a distressed face.

“Well! Is the boy moon-struck? ‘It's Sunday, grandpapa.’ Don't you suppose I know that?”

“I didn't think it was quite right, sir, to go to A—— church when we had one so near us.”

“Just as you please,” said Sir George, contemptuously—“just as you please, Master Louis; only do not expect me to plan any thing for your pleasure again.”

“I am very much obliged, grandpapa—you don't understand me.”

“Oh, we understand each other very well, sir,” said his grandfather, turning off very haughtily.

As he passed Mr. Mortimer he said,

“This comes of molly-coddling that boy at home; you'll make a Methodist of him.”

What answer Mr. Mortimer made, Louis could not hear, and the next moment they all went into the chapel.

Many contemptuous smiles were exchanged among those of the visitors who heard the colloquy, but Louis was comforted by an approving smile from his parents, and from the sweet consciousness of having done what was right. The service was very sweet to him, and the lightness of his heart made even the inferior singing very pleasant, and he gained something from “tedious Mr. Burton's” sermon; so much depends on the frame of mind. Our Saviour has enjoined us to take heed how we hear.

Louis had a very pleasant stroll in the park with his father after service, and when he entered the house with a happy quiet mind, he contrasted his feelings with those he should have had, had he been one of the giddy party at that time returning from A——, and joyfully thanked his heavenly Father for keeping him from dishonoring His holy day in “seeking his own pleasure” on it.

---

The following Thursday evening Mr. Mortimer's carriage was seen coming along the road leading to Dashwood, and at each window was a very joyful face noting all the familiar objects around; and as the horses dashed round a corner under a short grove of limes, the tongues belonging to the two began to move with astonishing rapidity.

“Here's Dashwood!” cried one.

“There's the river,” exclaimed the other.

“The Priory chimneys,” shouted the first.

“The Grange, Reginald,” cried the second.

“And Bessie Gordon in the garden,—she sees us,” cried Reginald, who had changed sides for a second. “Ann White's cottage, Louis—I saw the old picture of Lazarus large as ever—and the sheep—and I smell hay. Look, there's a hay-field, and Johnson with the hay-makers! Hillo, Johnson! He sees me.”

“The bells, papa! The bells, mamma!” exclaimed Louis—“Oh, it's home, dear, sweet home! The bells are ringing because you are come home, papa; and look, there are all the people coming out of the cottages—how glad they seem to be!”

“Louis, Louis, here we go!” shouted Reginald, as the carriage swept down a lane arched over with green boughs.

Presently they came to the lodge gate; but not a moment had they to wait; it was wide open, and they could scarcely exchange marks of recognition with the gatekeeper and family, when they were out of sight in the long winding carriage road that led through the park.

“Welcome, welcome—home! The dear, dear old Priory,” said Louis, with increasing enthusiasm.

“Take care you are not out on the grass, Louis,” said his mother, seizing his arm.

“Here we are!” cried Reginald. “And there's Mary, the little pussy, and sober Neville, looking out of his wits, for a wonder. Here we are!”

---

Chapter XII.

“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”—Eccles. ix. 10.

“Watch and pray.”—Matt. xxvi. 41.

“The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds; casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God.”—2 Cor. x. 4, 5.

“Ah! Louis, this is home,” exclaimed Reginald, as, after the embraces in the hall, they entered the pleasant drawing-room. It was home, home with all its sweet associations and dear beings; and, in a few minutes, Reginald and Louis had run all over the house for the pleasure of seeing “the dear old places;” had shaken hands with the old servants, given nurse a kiss, and, having finished by wakening Freddy from his first sleep, returned to the drawing-room, where tea was ready. It was a very pleasant tea that night. Every one had so much to say, and there was so much innocent mirth—all agreed it was worth while going away from home, for the pleasure of returning. Gradually the broad yellow light faded from the wall, table, carpet, and window; and, the gray twilight usurping its place, little Mary was obliged to leave her seat on her father's knee, and with many kisses was marshalled up stairs by nurse and Neville.

When Neville returned, the happy party sat round the open window watching the bright stars in their trembling beauty, and the half-moon rise over the dark trees, whitening their tops, silvering the water, and casting the deep shadows into deeper darkness. There was something in the still beauty that hushed the speakers, and at last only a low remark was now and then made, until Louis asked his mother to walk out into the garden. Mrs. Mortimer at first pleaded the heavy dews as an excuse, but the request was so urgently pressed by Reginald and Neville, and a large shawl and pair of clogs being procured, they sallied forth, Neville and his father first, then Reginald and Miss Spencer, and lastly, to his great satisfaction, Louis and his mother.

“I am so fond of moonlight, mamma,” said Louis.

“I think most people are,” replied his mother.

“I wonder what is the reason that moonlight is so much sweeter than sunlight,” said Louis.

“Do you like it better?” said his mother.

“I don't know that I like it better,” replied Louis; “but it always seems so quiet and soothing. I always liked moonlight when I was a very little boy—but I thought very differently about it then.”

“How so?” asked his mother.

“Oh! mamma, I thought it was very beautiful, and I felt a strange sort of feeling come into my mind—a sort of sad happiness: and sometimes I thought of fairies dancing in the moonlight; and when I grew older, I used to think a great deal of nonsense, or try to make poetry, and I called the moon ‘Diana,’ and ‘queen of night’—and imagined a great deal that I hardly like to tell you, about lovers walking in moonlight.”

“And your feelings are quite changed now?” asked his mother.

“Oh, yes! quite, mamma, it only seems more soothing, because I feel as if I were alone with God. Does it not seem to you, mamma, as if we see something of heaven in these lovely nights? I often wonder whether the bright stars are the many mansions our Saviour speaks of. Oh! mamma, what an immense thought it is to think of all these bright worlds constantly moving—either suns themselves with their planets revolving in ceaseless circles, or else themselves going round some bright sun!”

“And, perhaps,” added his mother, “that bright sun carrying all its attendant worlds round some larger and brighter sun, whose distance is too great to be calculated. By the aid of powerful telescopes may be seen in the extremity of our firmament, appearances which those who have devoted themselves to this glorious science have decided are other firmaments, each one containing its countless systems. Oh! Louis, God is infinite—what if these wondrous creations have no limit, but circle beyond circle spread out to all eternity! We may see the infinity of our Maker in the smallest leaf. There is nothing lost. What we destroy does but change its form.”

“Mamma, I once remember cutting a bit of paper into halves—that is to say, I first cut it into halves, and then cut one half into halves and so on, till my scissors would not divide the little bit. I was very idle that day, but I remember thinking that if I could get a pair of scissors small enough I could cut that speck up forever—and even if there only happened to be a grain left, I could not make that nothing.”

Louis paused; he was lost in thoughts of wonders that human imagination cannot grasp: the immensity and mystery of the Almighty's works. Presently he added, “I cannot imagine it, mamma, my mind seems lost when I try to think of forever. But there is a little hymn you used to teach me that I cannot help thinking of—I often think of it—it was the first I ever learned:

‘'Twas God, my child, that made them all

By His almighty skill;

He keeps them that they do not fall,

And rules them by His will.

How very great that God must be!’ ”

—Hymns for Infant Minds.

“Do you remember learning that hymn?” said his mother; “I should have thought it had been too long ago.”

“Oh, no, mamma. I remember once very distinctly, you had drawn up the blind that I might look at the stars, and you leaned over my crib, and taught me that verse. Mamma, even when I did not love God, I used to like to hear you tell me Bible stories and hymns sometimes, but I did not think much of them after they were over; but now, almost every thing reminds me of something in the Bible; or seems a type or a figure of some of our heavenly Father's dealings with us.”

“That is what the Apostle says,” replied Mrs. Mortimer: “ ‘The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty, through God, to the pulling down of strongholds; casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God; and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.’ Your imaginations before were not according to the will of God; you never saw any thing lovely in Him, but now He has become ‘altogether lovely’ in your eyes; every imagination that is contrary to His will is subdued, and all brought into obedience to Him. And are you not far happier?”

“Indeed I am; oh, how much more happy!” said Louis: “but, dear mamma, I do not wish you to think that I am always so happy, because that would not be true. Very often, I seem almost to forget that I am a child of God, and then, nothing awakens those happy feelings.”

“I do not suppose you are always so happy, my dear boy. It is too often the case with Christians, that instead of drawing their pleasures from the fountain of life, they imagine that they can make cisterns of their own; they look to the comforts around them, to the friends God has given them, for satisfaction; and numberless other things have a tendency to draw their minds from their heavenly Father, which must inevitably destroy their peace of mind. But how sad it should ever be so! we have only ourselves to blame that we are not always happy. A Christian should be the most joyous creature that breathes.”

“Dear mamma, how many pleasant conversations I have had with you!” said Louis, affectionately kissing his mother's hand, as it lay on his arm. “They have been some of my sweetest hours. It makes me so happy to talk of God's love to me.”

“An inexhaustible subject,” said his mother: “ ‘Then they that feared the Lord, spake often one to another; and the Lord hearkened and heard it; and a book of remembrance was written before Him, for them that feared the Lord, and thought upon his name. And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of Hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels.’

“Our favorite poet has expressed your feelings very beautifully:

‘Oh, days of heaven, and nights of equal praise,

Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days

When souls drawn upward, in communion sweet

Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat;

Discourse, as if released and safe at home,

Of dangers past and wonders yet to come;

And spread the sacred treasures of the breast

Upon the lap of covenanted rest.’ ”

—Cowper's “Conversation”.

“Come, I think I must order you in,” said Mr. Mortimer, who came up with the others, just as these lines were finished. “These nocturnal perambulations will not improve your health, my love; and it is past prayer-time already. What a sweet night!”

“I am afraid I have been a little imprudent, but it was a temptation when the dear boys pressed me so earnestly; our first night at home too, after so long a separation.”

“Mamma's very carefully wrapped up,” said Neville.

“And it's so deliciously warm,” said Reginald.

“Well, let us not increase the evil,” said Mr. Mortimer.

They presently re-entered the drawing-room, and the servants being summoned, Mr. Mortimer read prayers, and the boys went to bed.

The weather being generally wet for the next fortnight, all the in-door resources were drawn upon by the young people of the Priory, and time seldom hung heavily on their hands. I do not mean to say that there was never a moment wasted; on the contrary, Louis had many lazy fits. It must be allowed that in holiday time, when no one is expected to do much regularly, there are great temptations to be idle, and boys are apt to forget that it is not particularly for parents and teachers' good that they are exhorted to make the most of their time.

Louis' father and mother gave him many gentle reminders of his failing, and many were the struggles which he had with his dreamy indolence. Sometimes, when in accordance with a plan laid down by his mother's advice, he sat down to study for a stated time, he would open the book, and, after leaning over it for half an hour, find that he had built himself a nice little parsonage and school, and established himself a most laborious and useful minister in the prettiest of villages. At other times he was a missionary, or an eminent writer, and occasionally a member of Parliament. Then, at other times, he must draw the plan of a cottage or church, or put down a few verses; and sometimes, when he heard the clock strike the hour that summoned him to his studies, he had some excessively interesting story to finish, or very much preferred some other occupation.

“Now, Louis, my dear, there is ten o'clock.”

“Yes, mamma, I will go directly.”

“Directly,” in some persons' vocabulary, being an ambiguous term, another quarter of an hour saw Louis in the same place, quite absorbed.

“Louis, Louis!”

“Yes, mamma.” And Louis got up, book and all, and walked across the room, reading all the way. After knocking his head against the door, and walking into the library instead of into the school-room, he at last found himself at the table where his writing-desk stood, without any further excuse, but there he stood for a minute or two reading, and then, still continuing, felt for his key, and slipped it along the front of his desk for some time in the most absent and fruitless manner. Being obliged, at length, to lay aside the book, he unlocked the desk, and opening it, laid the dear volume thereon, and read while he carried his desk to another table. Then a few books were fetched in the same dawdling way, Louis all the while persuading himself—foolish boy—that he was merely occupying the time of walking across the room in reading. A few minutes more, and a chair was dragged along, and Louis seated. Then he reluctantly laid his book down open beside him and commenced. It would be tiresome to say how often when the dictionary or something else had to be referred to, a half page or more of the story was read, and to remark how equally Louis enjoyed his amusement and profited by his study. He was finally overwhelmed with confusion when his father, entering the room, came and looked over his shoulder, making some remark on the economy of time exhibited in thus ingeniously blending together his work and play without profiting by either.

“But indeed, papa, I don't know how it is; I made up my mind to be very industrious, and I was very steady yesterday.”

“You put me in mind of a story of a man who made a vow to abstain from frequenting beer-shops, and who, on the first day of his resolution, passed several successively, until he came to the last that lay on his way home, when he stopped and exclaimed, ‘Well done, Resolution! I'll treat you for this,’ and walked in.”

“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Louis, laughing.

“Don't you think this looks very much like treating resolution?” said his father, taking up the open book.

“I can't tell how it is, papa,” said Louis, looking ashamed. “I assure you I did not mean to waste time; I cannot help being interested in stories, and unless I leave off reading them altogether, I don't know what to do.”

“As reading stories is not a duty,” said his father, “I would certainly advise your leaving off reading them if they interfere with what is so clearly one; but do you not think there is any way of arranging your affairs so as to prevent a harmless recreation from doing this?”

“I can't depend upon myself, papa. If it were Reginald, he could throw his book down directly, and do at once what he ought, and so would Neville, but it is quite a trouble to me sometimes even to bring my thoughts to bear upon dry studies, particularly mathematics, which I hate.”

“I allow there is some difference of constitution; Reginald is not so fond of reading as you are, and has naturally more power of turning his attention from one subject to another; but this power may be acquired, and if you grow up with this inclination to attend only to those things for which you take fancies and fits, you will not be a very useful member of society; for it must always be remembered that consistency is essential to a useful character, and that without it, though many may love, few will respect you.”

“I wish I could be like Neville; he is like a clock, and never lets any one thing interfere with another, and he always has time for all he wants to do, and is never in a hurry and flurry as I am; I think he has nothing to struggle with.”

“Indeed, my dear Louis, he has. Neville has as many faults as the generality of boys, but you must not forget how much longer he has begun the good fight than yourself; and the earlier we begin to struggle against the corruptions of our nature, the easier the task is; but, Louis, instead of wishing yourself like Neville, or any one else, think how you may approach most nearly to the high standard of excellence which is placed before us all.”

“But, father, how can I? What must I do?” sighed Louis. “You cannot tell how difficult it is to keep good resolutions. I fear I shall never be any better.”

“What is the grace of God, my boy?” said Mr. Mortimer, laying his hand on Louis' shoulder; “tell me, what is the grace of God?”

“God's favor and help,” replied Louis.

“And to whom is this promised?”

“To all who will ask for it, father.”

“And will you say you can do nothing? Oh, my dear son! God is a God of all grace, and can give to each of us what we need for every emergency. Without Him, we can, indeed, do nothing, but with Him we may do all things; and blessed be His name for this unspeakable gift by which He works in man a gradual restoration to more than his primeval condition. Called with a holy calling, my boy, seek to glorify God in every little affair of life; take your religion into these unpleasant studies, and you will find them pleasures.”

“But, father, there is one thing I want to say. Often when I pray, I do not seem able to do things that I wish and ought.”

“There may be two reasons for that,” replied his father. “The first, that you are not sufficiently in earnest in your petitions; and next, that you imagine that your prayers are to do all, without any exertion on your part—that the mere fact of having asked the help of the Almighty will insure you a supernatural ease and delight in performing these duties, forgetting that, while we are in this world we have to fight, to run steadily forward, not to sit still and expect all to be smooth for us. We must show diligence unto the end—we must watch as well as pray. You remember the parable of the withered hand?”

“Yes, father.”

“And you remember that our Lord commanded the man to stretch forth his hand. He might have pleaded that it was powerless; but no, the Lord had given him power at the moment he desired him to exert it; and just so to every Christian, God is a God of all grace, and will give to each of us the peculiar grace we need; but we must not lock it up and imagine it to be efficacious without exertion on our part.”

Louis was silent for some minutes. At length he turned his face up to his father, and said—

“What would you advise me to do?”

“What do you think yourself would be best?” said his father. “Think always after earnest prayer for divine guidance, what seems right to do, what the Bible says, and how it will be to the glory of your Saviour; then, when you have made up your mind as to the rectitude of any plan of action, let your movements be prompt and decided, and do not leave the silly heart any room to suggest its excuses and modifications. Your judgment may sometimes err, but it is better for the judgment than the conscience to be in fault. Be assured that if you thus acknowledge God in all your ways, He will direct your paths.”

Louis paused another moment, and said—

“Will you take that book, father, and not let me have it any more to-day, as it has interfered so much with my study; and I will try to be more industrious. I will finish my Prometheus and Euclid, and the projection of my map, and then, perhaps, I shall be ready for the reading.”

Mr. Mortimer shook his head as he held up his watch before his son's eyes—

“Too late, Louis. The time is lost, and something must be missed to-day.”

“Then, papa, I will do my Greek, and go to the reading, and then, instead of amusing myself after lunch, I will do the other things—and please take that book away with you.”

“I had rather leave it,” said Mr. Mortimer. “You must learn to act for yourself and by yourself. You do not expect to be always a boy, and if these weaknesses are not checked now, you will grow up a weak man, sadly dependent upon external influences and circumstances. Put the book out of your way by all means, but let it be your own act. And now I will leave you to do your work, for I see you have done very little, and that little very ill.”

When his father had left the room, Louis put the book on a shelf, and, turning his back to it, set himself to work with earnest determination. He rewrote what he had done so badly, took great pains with the new edition, and had the satisfaction of receiving his father's approval of his work in the evening. After lunch his disagreeable Euclid was completed, and the map finished, and Louis refrained steadily from looking at the book for the rest of the day; nor did he, though sorely inclined, open it the next day until he could do so with a safe conscience.

For the remainder of the holidays Louis adhered to his resolution; but I do not mean to say he trusted on his own resolution: that he had found, by painful experience, to be a broken reed. In dependence upon an Almighty helper, he steadily endeavored from day to day to perform what was required of him in his station and circumstances, and found his reward in peace of mind and consciousness of growing in grace.

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Chapter XIII.

It seems, by common consent, established among school-boys, that school and school-masters are necessary evils, only endurable because incurable, and that, as a matter of course, the return to school must be looked on as a species of martyrdom, the victims of which are unanimously opposed to the usual persuasives that school-days are the happiest, and that they will wish themselves back again before they have left it long. We will not attempt to account for this perversity of opinion in the minds of the individuals alluded to, nor have we any intention of instituting an inquiry as to the probability of the origin of this repugnance to scholastic life being in the natural opposition of man's mind to discipline or order, and the tendency therein to dislike all that is especially arranged and placed before him plainly for his benefit; but I am sure that most of those among my readers who either have been, or are school-boys at this moment, will agree with me in declaring that, returning to school, after the vacation, is a dismal affair, and that, during the first week or fortnight, certain rebellious feelings are prominent, which it would be treason to breathe.

The close of the holidays had arrived, and it was decided that Louis should return to school with his brother, notwithstanding his great wish to the contrary; but now his principles were firmer, his father was of opinion that mixing with a large party of boys was more calculated to supply what was wanting in his character than staying at home with his mother and sister, and, consequently, a day or two after the reopening of Ashfield House, Reginald and Louis were placed by their father safely in a coach that started from Norwich, and, in a rather sorrowful mood, began their long journey.

I have no adventures to mention; romantic incidents are rarely met with in a school-boy's life; nor was there any thing remarkable to relate in the day and a half's travel, beyond the stoppage for meals, and the changes of vehicle. Louis and his brother generally patronized the top of the coach, but as they drew near Bristol, Louis grew so sleepy and tired, from the length of the journey, as well as the imperfect slumber obtained inside the preceding night, that he preferred changing his quarters, to the risk of falling from his perch above. It so happened that the coach was empty inside, and Louis indulged himself by stretching at full length on one of the seats, and soon lost the recollection of his troubles in sleep. How long he had slept he could not tell, when the stopping of the coach disturbed him, and rising lazily, he looked out to see where they were. Instead, however, of the “White Lion,” in Bristol, or the “Roadside Inn,” with the four waiting horses, there was opposite the window a pretty house, standing in a moderately sized garden, gay with countless flowers, green grass, and waving trees. It was such a house as Louis with his romance loved; low and old-fashioned, with a broad glass door in the centre, on one side of which was a long casement-window, and on the other, two thick sashes. The house, extending to some length, displayed among the evergreen shrubs, delicate roses and honey-suckles, a variety of odd windows, from the elegant French to the deep old-fashioned bay; and over the front, almost entirely concealing the rough gray stucco, was a vine, the young grapes of which fell gracefully over the little bedroom windows, suggesting the idea, how very pleasant it would be, when the fruit was ripe, to obtain it at so little trouble. Louis especially noticed the sheltering trees, that grew to a great height close behind the house, and the long shadows thrown by the evening sun across the smooth green lawn.

While he was admiring the little prospect before him, a maid-servant, assisted by the guard of the coach, appeared at the door, carrying a black trunk, and behind followed another elderly servant, with a carpet-bag and basket. It was very evident that another passenger might be expected, and a few seconds more threw considerable light on the doubt enveloping the expected personage. The glass door before mentioned, opened into a low square hall, and at the further end, just as the carpet-bag reached the garden gate, appeared a group, of which, till it arrived at the door, little could be discerned but some white frocks. Presently, however, a pleasant middle-aged gentleman came out, holding by the hand a tearful-looking little boy, seemingly about nine or ten years old. The shade of his cap was pulled down very far over his forehead, but enough of his face was visible to betray some very showery inclinations. Two little girls, one older and the other younger, clung round him; the little one was weeping bitterly. When they reached the gate, the gentleman shook the boy's hand, and gave him in charge of the guard, to see him safely into a coach to convey him to Ashfield House.

“No fear of that, sir,” replied the guard, opening the coach door, and putting in the bag and basket. “I daresay these young gentlemen would let him ride with them: they are for Dr. Wilkinson's.”

“Indeed,” said the gentleman, looking at Reginald, and then following the jerk of the guard's thumb at Louis; “perhaps you will share your fly with my son?” Reginald replied that they would be most happy. The gentleman thanked him, and turning to his little boy, who was hugging his youngest sister at the moment, said cheerfully, “Well, Charles, this is pleasant; here are some school-fellows already. You will have time to make friends before you reach the doctor's. Come, my boy.”

Charles had burst into a torrent of fresh tears, and sobbing his “Good-byes,” got into the coach very quickly.

“Come, come, you mustn't be a baby,” said his father, squeezing both his hands; and he shut the coach door himself.

“Good-bye, Charlie,” said the little girls.

“Good-bye, master Charles,” said the servants.

“I shall be so glad when Christmas comes,” sobbed the little one.

The coach rolled away, amid the adieus and blessings poured on the disconsolate boy, who watched his home eagerly as long as he could see it. There they were all—father, sisters, and servants, watching at the gate till the coach was out of sight. For some time, Louis did not attempt to console his new companion, who threw himself into the opposite corner, and burying his face in his handkerchief, sobbed passionately, without any effort at self-control. At length, the violence of his grief abating, Louis gently spoke to him, asking if he had ever been away from home before. At first, Charles was very reserved, and only answered Louis' questions; but by degrees his sobs decreased, and from declaring that he could not see the reason of his being sent away from home, he at last talked freely to Louis of his father, sisters, and home; and asked Louis of his. Louis was ready enough to enlarge on these topics, and entered into an enthusiastic description of home and its pleasures, and before they had reached their journey's end, they had become very good friends.

Charles had informed Louis that his father was a clergyman, and that his home was the parsonage house; and enlarged very much on the pleasure of being taught by his father. There was something in his manner of expressing himself that often surprised Louis, and made him think that he must be older than he appeared. Before they reached Bristol, they had agreed to be “great friends,” and to help each other as much as possible. Charles had evidently been very carefully brought up, and Louis found that they had many things in common. They decided to be companions on Sunday, and to be together whenever they could.

Between seven and eight o'clock, the coach stopped in Bristol, where Reginald joined his brother; and after a few minutes spent in taking a hasty tea, the three boys were consigned to a suitable conveyance, and drove on to Dr. Wilkinson's.

Reginald had a mortal aversion to tears in any boy but Louis, and had consequently taken an antipathy to his new school-fellow, besides caring very little about so small a boy. He was just civil to him, and his manner bringing out all Charles's shyness, he became very silent, and scarcely any thing was said during the ride from Bristol to Ashfield House.

It would be of little use describing the interesting appearance that Ashfield House presented when the three young gentlemen arrived there. Such descriptions are generally skipped; consequently, I leave it to my reader's imagination to picture how romantic the edifice looked, with the last faint yellow daylight glowing on its front, and the first few stars peeping out on the green park.

Our young gentlemen, be assured, noticed nothing but the very dismal impression that they were once more at school. Inquiring if the doctor were to be seen, they were informed that he was expected in a few minutes, as it was nearly prayer-time; and accordingly Reginald marshalled the way without a word to the school-room. There was no one in the hall or school-room, but a murmur from the half-open door of the adjoining class-room drew them in that direction. The room was nearly full, for besides the first and second classes there were many belonging to the third class, and one or two others who had either arrived late, or taken advantage of the little additional license given the first few days to stay beyond their usual bedtime. It was too dark to distinguish faces, but the figure of Frank Digby, who had managed with great pains to climb the mantelpiece, and was delivering an oration, would have been unmistakable if even he had been silent;—who but Frank Digby could have had spirit to do it the third night after the opening of the school?

“Gentlemen and ladies,” began the merry-andrew; “I beg your pardon, the Lady Louisa not having arrived, and Miss Maria Matheson being in bed, I ought to have omitted that term—but, gentlemen, I take this opportunity, gentlemen, the opportunity of the eleventh demi-anniversary of our delightful reunion. Gentlemen, I am aware that some of you have not been fortunate enough to see eleven, but some among us have seen more. I, gentlemen, have seen eleven at this auspicious moment. I may say it is the proudest moment of my life to be able to stand on this mantelpiece and look down on you all, to feel myself enrolled a member of such an august corps. I may say I feel myself elevated at this present moment, but as, gentlemen, there is no saying, in the precarious situation I am now placed, how long I may be in a position to contemplate the elegance of his majesty and court, I hasten to propose that his majesty's health be eaten in plum-cake, and that if I fall somebody will catch me.

“With kind regards to all,

“Believe me your attached school-fellow,

“Frank Digby.”

A little on one side of the fireplace, which was not far from the open window, Trevannion was leaning back in a chair that he had tipped on the hind legs till the back touched the wall behind him, his own legs being stretched out on another poised in like manner on the two side legs; this elegant and easy attitude being chosen partly for the convenience of speaking to Salisbury, who was nicely balanced on the window-sill, eating plum-cake. As the young gentleman concluded his delectable harangue, he made an involuntary leap from his narrow pedestal, plunging on the top of Trevannion's legs, and, tumbling over him, struck with some violence against Salisbury, who was thrown out of the window by the same concussion that brought his more fastidious compeer to the ground, chairs and all. There was a burst of merriment at this unexpected catastrophe, but nothing could exceed the mirth of the author of the mischief, who sat in unextinguishable laughter on the floor, to the imminent danger of his person when the enraged sufferers recovered their legs.