“_Secondly_, I would have you seek your earthly enjoyment rather in beholding that of others, than in any pleasure that comes direct to yourself. Thus, in one way, Fontonore will be yours still. “_Thirdly_, I would have you prayerfully on the watch against the slightest feeling of jealousy towards Ernest. Never let your only brother think for one moment that you feel that he stands in your way.” “Oh, Mr. Ewart!” cried Charles, starting to his feet, “how could you imagine such a thing?” “It rests with you alone to prevent _his_ thinking it, and you have made a bad beginning to-day.” “I will go to Ernest at once,” said the boy, “and help to show him over the place. He shall never say—he shall never think that I am envious of his prosperity.” In truth, on that first evening of his arrival in the castle, Ernest was not much to be envied. He was uneasy about his brother—uncomfortable with his new companions; one hearty grasp from the hand of Charles, or approving word from his tutor, was worth all the smiles, and courtesies, and bows, which he knew had nothing to do with the heart. Ernest felt himself out of his natural place, and was constantly afraid of saying or doing something that would shock the polished grandees around him. As far as speaking was concerned, he was indeed tolerably safe, for he scarcely opened his lips, which made his companions set him down as dull and stupid; but he had been accustomed for so short a time to the refinements of polished society, and was so likely, in his very anxiety to please, to forget even the hints that he had received from Mr. Ewart, that there was certainly some little danger of his doing something “shocking.” The presence of half-a-dozen footmen in gay liveries in the room, was a disagreeable piece of state to the young lord; so many eyes were turned upon him whenever he moved; there were so many listeners if he uttered a word! Ernest made the serious mistake of eating fish with a knife. The shocked look of his aunt made him sensible of his blunder, and covered his face with blushes. At another time, Clementina pressed her lace handkerchief over her lips, to stifle her too evident inclination to titter, at the peasant-bred peer helping her to something from the dish before him with his own spoon. Ernest was very glad when the dinner was over, which had lasted, indeed, nearly twice as long as any of which he had ever partaken before. [Illustration: CLEMENTINA AT THE PIANO.]