“If you would only reform your manners, Alfred, you would find friends enough, from the Creator, who only requires of you that ’you cease to do evil and learn to do well,’ down to the humblest of his creatures—­down to that poor boy whom you so heartlessly insulted to-night; but whose generous nature would bear no lasting malice against you,” said Walter gravely.

“It is deuced hard, though, to see a fellow like that taking the shine out of us all,” grumbled Alfred.

“No, it isn’t! it is glorious, glorious indeed, to see a poor youth like that struggling up to a higher life—­as he is struggling.  He won the prize from me, me, his senior in age and in the school, and my heart burns with admiration for the boy when I think of it!  How severely he must have striven to have attained such proficiency in these three years.  How hard he must have studied; how much of temptation to idleness he must have resisted; how much of youthful recreation, and even of needful rest, he must have constantly denied himself; not once or twice, but for months and years!  Think of it!  He has richly earned all the success he has had.  Do not envy him his honors, at least until you have emulated his heroism,” said Walter, with enthusiasm.

“I think I will go home,” said Alfred, to whom the praises of his rival was not the most attractive theme in the world.

“You may return with me to the house now, if you please, since my friend Ishmael has gone home.  Keep out of the way of Miss Merlin, and no one else will interfere with you,” said Walter, who, when not roused to indignation, had all his father’s charity for “miserable” sinners.

Alfred hesitated for a minute, looking towards the house, where the light windows and pealing music of the drawing room proved an attraction too strong for his pride to resist.  Crestfallen and sheepish, he nevertheless returned to the scene of festivity, where the young people were now all engaged in dancing, and where, after a while, they all with the happy facility of youth forgot his rudeness and drew him into their sports.  All except Claudia, who would have nothing on earth to say to him, and Beatrice, who, though ignorant of his assault upon Ishmael, obeyed the delicate instincts of her nature that warned her to avoid him.

On observing the return of Alfred, Mr. Middleton took the first opportunity of saying to his son: 

“I see that you have brought Burghe back.”

“Yes, father; since Ishmael is not here to be pained by his presence, I thought it better to bring him back; for I remembered your words spoken of him on a former occasion:  ’That kindness will do more to reform such a nature as his than reprobation could.’”

“Yes—­very true!  But poor Ishmael!  Where is he?”

Aye! where, indeed?

CHAPTER XXXII.

AT HIS MOTHER’S GRAVE.

  He sees her lone headstone,
    ’Tis white as a shroud;
  Like a pall hangs above it
    The low, drooping cloud.