“It's not so easily done,” replied Louis; “oh, Charlie, I wish I were like you!”
“Oh, why?” said Charles, gravely; “you have a great many more friends, and are much better liked than I am. I have no friend but you—not that I care at all about it, but I should think you would.”
“Yes; but I wish I could make up my mind. I am not half so happy as you are, for I cannot make up my mind to do a thing because it is right. You only think about that and do it at once; and because I have so many friends, and even care about pleasing those I do not like, I am always getting into scrapes, and always doing wrong. I think there never was anybody so bad as I am. I wish papa hadn't sent me to school.”
“I like you very much,” said Clifton; “and I am sure you have done me good—on Sunday, at least.”
“Ah, it is much easier to know and talk of what is right than to do it,” replied Louis, sighing very deeply. “Oh, domum, dulce domum! But there is Reginald, and I must go and ask him a question.”
For several days after this occurrence, Louis was too busy, and too much with his brother, to see much of his evil advisers; and very pleased in having, as he imagined, thus got rid of them. The examination was going on in earnest; Louis had now nearly regained his old place, and was, on the whole, favorably reported of: but Clifton was not to be overcome. Thoroughly prepared, and thoroughly understanding all he had learned, he kept the first place undaunted by any difficulty, and apparently unexcited by the crisis; at least, Louis remarked to Reginald, that Clifton was so cool, he didn't seem to care whether he won or not. He had a little more color than usual, and the only beauty his face possessed—his intelligent eyes—wore perhaps a keener and more anxious expression, but this was not noticed by a casual observer; nor was the violent palpitation of the heart, when the chances ran so closely between him and the next, at the close of a two days' struggle for the mathematical prize. There were few that congratulated him on his almost unparalleled success; but few that did not respect his ability and steadiness. Never once, from the first day he came to school, had he on any occasion incurred the displeasure of his masters; and yet no one cared for him, for he had lived only for himself.
But to return to Louis. The mathematical contest was finished, and there was a little lull before the second class would be again called on, and Louis determined to spend this little interval of leisure in giving a finishing scrutiny of the history likely to be in demand. Full of his purposes, he burst into the class-room, where only Hamilton and Reginald were, the former writing very fast, and the latter looking carefully over an English essay he had just finished. Louis flew to the shelves and ransacked them in vain: almost every book he wanted was gone. At length, in despair, he asked Reginald if he knew who had Rollin's History. Reginald absently replied in the negative, as he noted down something in the page he was reading.
“The books are always gone,” said Louis, pettishly. “I suppose Charlie has it. He had it yesterday—he might as well let me have it to-day.”
“Trevannion has it, I think,” said Reginald.