Francis Denbigh, the eldest son of the general, was naturally diffident, and, in addition, it was his misfortune to be the reverse of captivating in external appearance.  The small-pox sealed his doom;—­ignorance, and the violence of the attack, left him indelibly impressed with the ravages of that dreadful disorder.  Oh the other hand, his brother escaped without any vestiges of the complaint; and his spotless skin and fine open countenance, met the gaze of his mother, after the recovery of the two, in striking contrast to the deformed lineaments of his elder brother.  Such an occurrence is sure to excite one of two feelings in the breast of every beholder—­pity or disgust; and, unhappily for Francis, maternal tenderness, in his case, was unable to counteract the latter sensation.  George become a favorite, and Francis a neutral.  The effect was easy to be seen, and it was rapid, as it was indelible.

The feelings of Francis were sensitive to an extreme.  He had more quickness, more sensibility, more real talent than George; which enabled him to perceive, and caused him to feel more acutely, the partiality of his mother.

As yet, the engagements and duties of the general had kept his children and, their improvements out of his sight; but at the ages of eleven and twelve, the feelings of a father, began, to take pride in the possession of his sons.

On his return from a foreign station, after an absence of two years, his children were ordered from school to meet him.  Francis had improved in stature, but not in beauty; George had flourished in both.

The natural diffidence of the former was increased, by perceiving that he was no favorite, and the effect began to show itself on manners at no time engaging.  He met his father with doubt, and he saw with anguish, that the embrace received by his brother much exceeded in warmth that which had been bestowed on himself.

“Lady Margaret,” said the general to his wife, as he followed the boys as they retired from the dinner table, with his eyes, “it is a thousand pities George had not been the elder. He would have graced a dukedom or a throne.  Frank is only fit for a parson.”

This ill-judged speech was uttered sufficiently loud to be overheard by both the sons:  on the younger, it made a pleasurable sensation for the moment.  His father—­his dear father, had thought him fit to be a king; and his father must be a judge, whispered his native vanity; but all this time the connexion between the speech and his brother’s rights did not present themselves to his mind.  George loved this brother too well, too sincerely, to have injured him even in thought; and so far as Francis was concerned, his vanity was as blameless as it was natural.

The effect produced on the mind of Francis was different both in substance and in degree.  It mortified his pride, alarmed his delicacy, and wounded his already morbid sensibility to such an extent, as to make him entertain the romantic notion of withdrawing from the world, and of yielding a birthright to one so every way more deserving of it than himself.