“Ernest,” said he, laying his hand on his brother’s arm, “just answer me one question: How is it that you do not receive the same allowance that I did?” Receiving no answer, he continued, “Is it possible that you are dividing yours with me?” Ernest smiled. “I am not bound to answer questions,” said he. [Illustration: THE CONVERSATION IN THE PARK.] “Oh, I see it all! generous, noble-hearted brother! And you suffered me to accuse you in my own mind of meanness—almost to reproach you to your face for it—while all the time it was your money that I have been spending, and you never even let me know my obligation!” “Obligation is not a word for brothers,” replied Ernest; “what I have is yours; what you spend I enjoy; let us always have a common purse between us.” “No, that must never be!” exclaimed Charles; “you have burdens enough upon your hands already. My uncle must supply me.” “Do not deprive your brother of his privilege,” said Ernest, who had seen enough of Mr. Hope by this time to know that it would be galling to Charles to be in any way dependent upon him. “You will hurt me if you deny me this favour; I shall think that you do not care for me, Charley.” It was the first time that Ernest had ever used this familiar and endearing name to his brother. There was something in his tone, as he pronounced it, and in his manner, as he threw his arm round Charles, that raised a glow of affection in the heart of the boy, warmer than he had ever known before. Both felt the strength of that holy beautiful tie by which the members of every family should be united. Children of the same parents on earth, children of the same Father in heaven; with one common home both below and above—one path to tread and one goal to reach—how is it that pride and envy can ever disunite the hearts which God himself would join together? CHAPTER XVIII. FOGS AND MISTS. One evening, after the family had been more than a month in London, Ernest sat alone in the drawing-room with his book. Mr. and Mrs. Hope were absent at a dinner party, which the lady was to leave early, in order to call for the young people, to take them to the long-expected ball in Grosvenor Square. Clementina had been up-stairs for more than an hour, engaged in what was to her one of the most interesting occupations of life—decking out her little person in all the extravagance of fashion. Ernest sat by the window, not that the light by which he read was in any way derived from anything outside it; but it amused him to glance up occasionally from his page and look out upon what was to him a novel sight—a regular yellow London fog.