“I have a key in my bosom, called Promise, that will, I am persuaded open any lock in Doubting Castle.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._ “What has occurred? what could your uncle mean by speaking of deliberate falsehood?” said Mr. Ewart, as soon as the three were alone in his room, and the door closed behind them. Ernest was too much agitated to speak. Charles told in a few words all that had happened, omitting nothing but his brother’s greater share in the fault. Mr. Ewart listened with a look of distress on his countenance, which cut both the boys to the soul. “We meant well,” said Charles in conclusion, “but everything has turned out ill.” “You should rather say,” observed the clergyman, in a mild but sad tone, “that you meant well, but that you acted ill.” “And you must suffer for our fault,” exclaimed Ernest, in bitter grief. “What I suffer from most is the thought of your fault.” “But that it should be laid at _your_ door, you who have never taught us anything but what is right—oh! it is such cruelty, such injustice—” “Hush,” said the tutor, laying his hand upon Ernest’s, “not a word must you utter against your guardian; and remember that he had grounds for his indignation.” Ernest leant both his arms upon the table, and bending down his forehead upon them, wept in silence. “If you leave us on account of this,” cried Charles, with emotion, “we shall never be happy again.” “Not so,” said Mr. Ewart, soothingly; “though the Christian is commanded to repent, he is forbidden to despair. Experience is precious, though it may cost us dear: it will be worth even the sorrow which you are feeling now, if this lesson is deeply imprinted on your soul, _Never do evil that good may come_.” “In no case?” inquired Charles. “In no case,” replied the clergyman.—“We show want of faith in the power of the Almighty, if we imagine that He needs one sin to work His own good purposes. We can never expect a blessing on disobedience.” “What I cannot endure,” exclaimed Ernest, raising his head, “is to think what the world will say. I know the colouring that my uncle will put upon the affair—how my aunt will talk to her fashionable friends. She will speak of the danger of evil influence, of her anxiety for her dear nephews, and the shock which it had been to her to find what principles had been instilled into their minds. Oh, Mr. Ewart, best, dearest friend, we have injured you indeed—we have brought disgrace upon your spotless character!” “God knows my innocence in regard to you,” replied the clergyman; “to Him I commit my cause. To be the object of unjust accusation has often been the appointed trial of His servants. He can make even this affliction work for their good. And now, my dear boys, leave me. I have letters to write, little preparations to make, and I need a brief space for reflection.” “Do you forgive us?” said Charles, pressing his tutor’s hand with a mixture of affection and respect.