“I wish to see no one!” exclaimed Charles, as again a knock was heard at his door.
“Will you not admit me?” said the voice of Mr. Ewart. In an instant the door was thrown open.
“I did not know that it was you, sir; but I might have guessed who was the only being likely to come near me.”
Mr. Ewart saw in a moment by the face of his pupil, as well as by the tone in which he spoke, that he was struggling—no, not struggling with, but rather overcome by his passions; and more grieved than displeased by the conduct of the boy, he led him quietly to a sofa, on which they both sat down together.
“I am sorry,” said Mr. Ewart, “that you left us so soon; your brother may be hurt by your absence.”
“Oh, he’ll never miss me; he has plenty to take up his attention. Aunt Matilda will never let him out of her sight. Miss Clemmy will deck herself out even
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 finer than usual to do honour to the lord of the castle. And of course he’ll be taken by all the flattery and fuss; he’ll believe all the nonsense of that worldly set; he’ll be everything now, and I shall be nothing, because he happened to be born a year before me. It’s very hard,” he added bitterly; “it’s very hard.”
“‘It’s very hard’ is one of the Evil One’s favourite suggestions,” said Mr. Ewart; “its meaning was contained in the very first words which he ever uttered to a human ear. He would have persuaded Eve that it was very hard that she might not eat of every fruit in the garden; and now, surrounded as we are with manifold blessings, it is his delight to point to the one thing denied, and still whisper, ‘It’s very hard to be kept from that which you so much desire.’”
“I cannot help feeling,” murmured Charles; “things are so different now from what they were.”
“Did you ever expect them to remain the same? Did you suppose that your path would be always amongst flowers? Are you not forgetting that you are a stranger and a pilgrim—the follower of a Master who was a man of sorrows?”
Charles sighed heavily, and looked down.
“How often have you repeated the lines—
‘The greatest evil we can fear,
Is to possess our portion here!’
Had you the power of choice, would you enjoy that
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 portion in this life, were it even to bestow on you the crown of an emperor?”
“No,” replied Charles, with emphasis.
“Let me refer you to your favourite Pilgrim’s Progress. Remember what Christian beheld in the house of the Interpreter—that which we constantly behold in daily life: Passion demanding his treasure at once; Patience waiting meekly for a treasure to come. Which was the richest in the end?”
“You must not imagine that it was the sight of the dear old castle, and all that I have lost, that has made me feel in this way,” exclaimed Charles. “You saw how cheerful I was not an hour ago, and I knew then that I was no longer Lord Fontonore.”
“Yes; you had seen your cross, but you had not taken it up; you had not felt its weight. It is now that you must rouse up your courage.”
“What I feel,” exclaimed Charles impetuously, “is contempt for the mean, heartless beings, who were all kindness to me when I bore a title, and now have turned round like weathercocks! I do not believe that even you can defend them.”
“I think that you may judge them hardly. You have too easily taken offence; you have made no allowance for their natural curiosity to see the hero of so romantic a tale as Ernest’s. Would not you yourself have felt eager to meet him?”
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Charles admitted that perhaps he might have done so.
“You have taken Passion and Pride for your counsellors, dear Charles: the one has blinded your eyes that you should not see the straight path; the other would bind your feet that you should not pursue it. And miserable counsellors have you found them both; they have inflicted on your heart more pain than the loss of both title and estate.”
“What would you have me do?” said Charles, more quietly; for he felt the truth of the last observation.
“First, I would have you endeavour to bring yourself to be content to be of little importance. Until your mind is in this state of submission, you will be like one with a wound which is being perpetually rubbed.
“Secondly, I woul............