“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.
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“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
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 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.
“Forgive you! you have erred but through kindness towards me. I have nothing to forgive, dear Charles.”
Ernest rushed from the room without uttering a word. Charles followed him through the long corridor, down the broad oaken staircase, to the drawing-room, in which the family was still assembled.
Ernest came to confess, to plead, to entreat; and he pleaded, he entreated, with the fervent eloquence of one who thinks his whole happiness at stake. Mr. Hope
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 listened with a rigid, unmoved look; his lady, who sat at her desk, observed, with an unpleasant smile, that the reverend gentleman had been evidently working upon the feelings of his pupils. She interrupted Ernest’s most passionate appeal, by telling that she was at that moment engaged in writing to her friend, Lady Fitzwigram, about a very superior tutor, of whom she had spoken to her when in London. “If Mr. Sligo should be still disengaged,” observed the lady, “this affair may prove really a fortunate occurrence.”
 
THE CONFESSION AND ENTREATY.
Fontonore and Charles left the room in despair.
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 Bitterly reproaching themselves for having wandered from the right path, they retired to the chamber of the former, where they both remained for the remainder of the night, for companionship in sorrow was their only consolation in this time of bitter distress.
“It was I who led you into this trouble,” cried Ernest. “I have been your tempter, your false guide; all that has happened has been owing to me! How could I ever dare to call myself a pilgrim, after all that has happened, after all the lessons which I have received, to fall away thus, and disgrace my profession! Will not Clementina look upon me as a hypocrite. I could speak to her of the joy of the Lord, of the pleasures of devotion, of the glories of heaven! Ah, how different will she think my actions to my words! She may even place my errors to the account of my religion; my sin will be a stumbling-block in her way.”
“Ernest, brother, you must not give way thus. To fall once may not be to fall for ever. God is merciful and ready to forgive; it is foolish, it is wrong to despair.”
Poor Charles endeavoured to give comfort, which he much needed himself; yet his grief was not so deep as his brother’s. Ernest felt more strongly, what every Christian should feel, that he who has confessed religion openly before men should, above all others, be watchful over............