Never before had Clementina found her cousin half so agreeable as now. He was so gentle, so considerate, so ready to sympathize with her, that she began suddenly quite to change her opinion of him, and think the young peer a very delightful companion. She had hitherto been rather provoked at his indifference towards her; now, as she had little idea of the nature of Christian courtesy, she attributed all his kindness to admiration. She thought that the white bandage across her brow might have an “interesting” effect; and Ernest’s gentle consideration would have lost half its power to please, had Clementina been aware that it would have been equally shown to one in a humbler class of life of the age of forty instead of fourteen. As she reclined on the sofa, and Ernest sat beside her, it was a great comfort to her to be able to pour out her complaints to him. “There never was anything so unfortunate,” said she; “you can’t imagine what it is to have such a disappointment.” [Illustration: CLEMENTINA AND ERNEST.] “I think that I can, Clementina, for I was once most bitterly disappointed myself.” “Oh, but you are such a sober creature, such a philosopher. I daresay that you scarcely gave it a thought.” “On the contrary, I felt myself almost overwhelmed. I could hardly speak, I could hardly keep from tears.” “You!” exclaimed Clementina in surprise. “I thought,” continued Ernest, “that there was no one on earth so unhappy as I—that all happiness in this world was gone.” “What could have made you so wretched?” cried the girl, her curiosity so much roused that her own troubles were for the moment forgotten. “I had lost what I greatly desired.” “And what could that have been, Ernest?” “A situation so much below my real rank, that I smile now to think that I could ever have wished for it. Had no difficulties been in my way, had I had what I desired, I probably never should have possessed my birth-right. How glad I am now of what so much distressed me then!” “And what was it you were so miserable at losing?” “A place in the service of Mr. Searle.” “You don’t say so!” exclaimed Clementina, opening her eyes to their widest extent. “That was below you indeed; what an escape you made!” “Perhaps nothing that ever happened to me caused me more pain.” “Oh! that was because you did not know what you really were, or you would have looked a good deal higher.” “Now, Clemmy, it seems to me that this is the very reason why you are so unhappy this evening.” “What! that I do not know what I really am? what can you mean!” exclaimed the girl, yet more astonished than before. “If you discovered that you were a king’s daughter, would you fret for a ball, or care for a blow?” “Really, Ernest,” cried Clementina, half curious, half inclined to think him jesting, though he did not look so, “I wish you would speak so that I could understand you.”