“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.