Ernest was also, perhaps, the most warmly attached to his tutor. Mr. Ewart had been his friend at a time when he had no other: it was through him that he had discovered his right to an earthly title; it was through him that he had learned to hope for a heavenly one; and to have been the means of inflicting deep injury on his benefactor wrung the spirit of the boy with anguish, even greater than the pang of parting with his friend. Long after Charles, weary and sad, had dropped asleep, Ernest lay awake, revolving bitter thoughts in his mind, almost too miserable even to pray. Never in the course of his whole life of trial had he passed so wretched a night. The envied Lord of Fontonore, in his magnificent castle, surrounded by all that could minister to his ease, was more wretched than Mark Dowley had been in his cottage, hungry, despised, and persecuted. Such are the pangs of a wounded conscience—such the misery of a backsliding professor! Ernest fell asleep at last, worn out by the conflict in his own mind, and awoke in the morning with a weight on his heart which painfully oppressed, even before he was sufficiently roused to remember what it was that had caused it. Mr. Ewart did not appear at breakfast, and neither of the boys could taste the meal. The sound in the court-yard of the wheels of the carriage which was to take their tutor away, and the sight of the neat black trunk, labelled and corded, placed ready by the door in the hall, made their hearts feel almost ready to burst. The family of Mr. Hope avoided being present, but a number of the servants assembled to witness the departure of one who was respected by all. Even Jack and Ben were seen loitering on the drawbridge; and Lord Fontonore could not help remarking that the former surveyed him with a look of even greater insolence than was his wont; but poor Ernest was too much humbled, too much depressed, to be roused to any feeling of anger. Mr. Ewart came forth, looking pale and thoughtful, but he smiled as soon as he saw his late pupils, and held out a hand to each. He bade a kind farewell to the numerous attendants, with a word of advice or encouragement to some. There were aprons lifted to tearful eyes, saddened looks, and murmured blessings, as the clergyman passed through the assembled throng to where the carriage was waiting. The boys grasped his hands, and kept them within their own, reluctant to unloose that last, firm clasp. He gave them his earnest, solemn blessing, and bade them put their trust in Him who would never leave or forsake them. “Shall we ever meet again?” faltered Ernest. “I hope so—I believe so,” replied Mr. Ewart, cheerfully. “This very morning I received a kind invitation from Mr. Searle. If I see no other opening before me, I may possibly visit Silvermere early in the spring; and if so—” “Oh, if you were at the other end of the world, we should find some means of meeting,” exclaimed Charles.