Ernest had endured, without injury, the flattery of the world—he attributed it all to his title. The praises of Charles had nothing dangerous in them—he set them down to a brother’s partiality; but it was something new to him to be admired for the very qualities for which, a few months before, he had suffered persecution; it was something delightful to be looked up to by so many, and viewed as a model of Christian benevolence! We may wonder that, after his last sad fall, Ernest could have entertained a thought of spiritual pride; but our enemy is ever watchful and insidious and human nature infirm. We do not willingly dwell upon what gives us pain; and often, too often, deceive our own hearts from the pleasure which it gives us to be thus deceived. Ernest had often remarked, that the worldly are constantly engaged in raising pedestals on which to elevate self; he had seen the ambitious build his of popular applause;—such was Mr. Hope’s, and it had crumbled into dust. The proud woman had raised herself by fashion, the vain beauty by the admiration of society. But while Ernest could thus observe the failings of others, he would have been startled and alarmed indeed had he known that he was now raising such a pedestal himself! His very prayers, his alms, his good works, were turned into a stumbling-block in his path; whatever exalts _self_, stands between us and the Saviour, and we are never safe but when our pride lies humbled in the dust before Him. I would especially direct the attention of my reader to this last most subtle device of Satan to keep back the pilgrim from heaven. As God draws good out of evil, Satan draws evil out of good, and sometimes makes us deem ourselves most near the celestial city when we are actually turning our faces from it. The most experienced pilgrims may be taken in this snare; the most zealous, the most devoted Christians are perhaps in the greatest danger from it. We are so ready to forget when the mirror shines brightly, that it is in itself but dust and ashes, borrowing all its radiance from heaven. The tender leaves were now beginning to appear on the shrubs, and the dark branches of the trees were spangled with the light green buds which told the approach of spring. The crocus lifted its golden cup from the sod, and the snow-drop trembled on its slender stem. On the day when Ernest would complete his thirteenth year, his school-house was to be opened for the first time. A number of friends were asked to be present on the occasion,—Mr. Searle, his daughter, and a son from college amongst the rest, Ernest’s often-expressed wish having at length overcome the reluctance of his aunt to invite them. There was to be a band and a collation in honour of the occasion; and the children were abroad early in the sunny morning to gather flowers to decorate the school-room.