“What an extraordinary piece of impertinence,” said the baronet, on whose arm she leaned. “Surely,” he added, in a lower tone, “such a story had never any foundation in truth.” Some recommended a severe thrashing to the offender, some that he should at once be turned adrift on the world. Ernest felt the whole subject intolerably painful; annoyed as he was at Jack, he was more annoyed at himself for having been overcome by sudden passion. Charles, with the quick eye of affection, read his wish in his look; and springing on the table to raise himself above the throng, he began an extempore questioning of the children, conducting his examination with so much spirit and fun as quite to change the current of general conversation. But though the disagreeable subject was dropped and apparently forgotten, the school-room duly admired, and the children’s progress applauded, every word of praise and compliment now fell flat upon the ear of Fontonore. The discipline had been bitter, but it was just what he had required. A veil had been suddenly drawn from his eyes; he had been thrown from his pedestal of pride. He had been reminded of what he had been, what he had done, and shown what he still continued to be—a weak, infirm child of dust, subject to passion and sin, having nothing whereof he could boast. “I was not only angry,” thought Ernest to himself, “but uncandid. I gave an impression to all who heard me that I denied that of which I was accused. He who but declared unpleasant truth, in my passion I called a liar. Oh! how greatly have I of late been deceiving myself when believing my conduct to be more consistent than that of others. One thing, however, remains to be done. I can yet make some amends; and I will do so, whatever it may cost my feelings, however it may wound my pride.” As he showed his guests over the castle and grounds, Fontonore was remarkably silent and absent. Charles wondered to himself that the insolence of a boy should have such an effect upon his brother; but he did not guess what deeper feelings were stirring in the breast of the pilgrim. At last Ernest, as if in reply to some question from Clementina, whose sound had fallen upon his ear, but whose sense he had not taken in, proposed that they should all go and see the children at their feast on the lawn. “I should have thought that we had had enough of those children,” said Clementina, with affectation. “I cannot conceive the pleasure of watching them eating, and our presence can be nothing but a restraint.”