George Denbigh was open-hearted without suspicion, and a favorite.  The first quality taxed his generosity, the second subjected him to fraud, and the third supplied him with the means.  But these means sometimes failed.  The fortune of the general, though handsome, was not more than competent to support his style of living.  He expected to be a duke himself one day, and was anxious to maintain an appearance now that would not disgrace his future elevation.  A system of strict but liberal economy had been adopted in the case of his sons.  They had, for the sake of appearances, a stated and equal allowance.

The duke had offered to educate the heir himself, and under his own eye.  But to this Lady Margaret had found some ingenious excuse, and one that seemed to herself and the world honorable to her natural feeling; but had the offer been made to George, these reasons would have vanished in the desire to advance his interests, or to gratify his propensities.  Such decisions are by no means uncommon; parents having once decided on the merits and abilities of their children, frequently decline the interference of third persons, since the improvement of their denounced offspring might bring their own judgment into question, if it did not convey an indirect censure on their justice.

The heedlessness of George brought his purse to a state of emptiness.  His last guinea was gone, and two months were wanting to the end of the quarter.  George had played and been cheated.  He had ventured to apply to his mother for small sums, when his dress or some trifling indulgence required an advance; and always with success.  But here were sixty guineas gone at a blow, and pride, candor, forbade his concealing the manner of his loss, if he made the application.  This was dreadful; his own conscience reproached him, and he had so often witnessed the violence of his mother’s resentments against Francis, for faults which appeared to him very trivial, not to stand in the utmost dread of her more just displeasure in the present case.

Entering the apartment of his brother, in this disturbed condition, George threw himself into a chair, and with his face concealed between his hands, sat brooding over his forlorn situation.

“George!” said his brother, soothingly, “you are in distress; can I relieve you in any way?”

“Oh no—­no—­no—­Frank; it is entirely out of your power.”

“Perhaps not, my dear brother,” continued the other, endeavoring to draw his hand into his own.

“Entirely! entirely!” said George.  Then springing up in despair, he exclaimed, “But I must live—­I cannot die.”

“Live! die!” cried Francis, recoiling in horror.  “What do you mean by such language?  Tell me, George, am I not your brother?  Your only brother and best friend?”

Francis felt he had no friend if George was not that friend, and his face grew pale while the tears flowed rapidly down his cheeks.