“Young Carrington, he is in the Church--why should not he do? He might, of course, be had at a minute’s notice;--£800 a year would be a fortune to him;--besides, there’s policy in the thing--I find North Park (a farm of some five hundred acres) is in the entail; if he were to get scent of it, and could obtain access to the papers, he might claim it any day; his boyish, chivalrous scruples are sure to wear out; this would bind him to me by the the of gratitude: he is just one of those hot-headed, romantic dispositions that are always absurdly grateful. Gad! I could not have hit on a fitter person; I’ll write to him at once: I’ve got his direction, somewhere”--as he spoke, he began tossing over papers and letters in search of the missing direction. “A very good thought,” he continued; “I could see through that young fellow in a minute; he may be managed as easy as a child, if you only take advantage of his weak points. I like ’em of what they call an open disposition; they show you their whole hand at starting; it’s your close, crafty, quiet dogs that are the hardest to deal with. I shall make a point with him that he gets every farthing out of that proud, haughty Mrs. Colville, and her conceited, stuck-up minx of a daughter; they’ve looked down upon me, and never liked me, I know: they’ll be sorry for it some day.” Ernest Carrington, when he returned to his rooms after morning school, found two letters on his table. The first he opened was from Dr. Donkiestir, and ran as follows:--