“And a missionary is the leader of a forlorn hope,” interrupted Charles.
“Not forlorn,” exclaimed Ernest; “his hope is sure: if faithful, he is certain of both victory and life.”
“I believe, after all,” said Charles, “that a clergyman’s is the noblest, as well as the most anxious of professions. But even did I wish it to be mine, the question remains—Could I ever be worthy of it?”
“Ah, that is my difficulty too,” cried Ernest; “and yet,” he added hopefully, “I cannot but think that He who first gave us a love for the work, would also give us strength to perform it.”
By this time the brothers had reached home. Ernest found the drawing-room empty. A novel lay on the table near which Clementina had been sitting, but the Pilgrim’s Progress had evidently been moved from the place where her cousin had left it. He remained, like many others who try to do good, in uncertainty as to whether his endeavours had been fruitless; but with the sweet assurance that whether successful or not, the smallest attempt to serve others, for the sake of the Lord, would never be forgotten by Him.
In another week the family returned to Fontonore, whither Mr. Hope had preceded them by a few days in order to carry on his canvass. If the castle was beautiful at the end of autumn, when Ernest first saw his birth-place, not less striking was its appearance now. The red globe of the winter’s sun seemed to rest upon the battlements, gleaming faintly on the arched windows crusted with hoar frost. Every twig on the creepers that mantled the walls, every leaf on the evergreens that adorned the entrance, was covered with white glistening crystals, like the work of a fairy enchantress.
On the bridge on which Mr. Ewart had stood to see the boys depart, he again appeared to welcome them back; and nothing gave so much pleasure to their hearts as his warm, affectionate greeting.
Ernest found everything much as he had left it. Ben appeared, indeed, to have somewhat improved under the careful instruction which he had received; but Jack was the same forward, reckless boy, dead to every feeling of gratitude or shame. He was noted in the castle for mischief-making; his word was never to be depended upon; he seemed to have inherited his father’s love for gambling; but perhaps the most painful feature in his character was his undisguised dislike of his young benefactor.
“I should almost recommend,” said Mr. Ewart, when speaking on the subject to his pupil, “that some other situation should be found for this unhappy boy, where he might be under severer control, and less in a position to give annoyance.”