th the public to jeer them: and if they
suffer, suffer in private. Here comes my lord home from hunting. Take away
the books. My lord does not love to see them. Lessons are over for to-day,
Mr. Tutor." And with a curtsy and a smile she would end this sort of
colloquy.

Indeed "Mr. Tutor", as my lady called Esmond, had now business enough on
his hands in Castlewood House. He had three pupils, his lady and her two
children, at whose lessons she would always be present; besides writing my
lord's letters, and arranging his accompts for him--when these could be got
from Esmond's indolent patron.

Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars, and as my lady
would admit no discipline such as was then in use, my lord's son only
learned what he liked, which was but little, and never to his life's end
could be got to construe more than six lines of Virgil. Mistress Beatrix
chattered French prettily from a very early age; and sang sweetly, but
this was from her mother's teaching--not Harry Esmond's, who could scarce
distinguish between "Green Sleeves" and "Lillabullero"; although he had no
greater delight in life than to hear the ladies sing. He sees them now
(will he ever forget them?) as they used to sit together of the summer
evenings--the two golden heads over the page--the child's little hand and
the mother's beating the time, with their voices rising and falling in
unison.

But if the children were careless, 'twas a wonder how eagerly the mother
learned from her young tutor--and taught him too. The happiest instinctive
faculty was this lady's--a faculty for discerning latent beauties and
hidden graces of books, especially books of poetry, as in a walk she would
spy out field-flowers and make posies of them, such as no other hand
could. She was a critic not by reason but by feeling; the sweetest
commentator of those books they read together; and the happiest hours of
young Esmond's life, perhaps, were those passed in the company of this
kind mistress and her children.

These happy days were to end soon, however; and it was by the Lady
Castlewood's own decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It
happened about Christmastime, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen years of
age, that his old comrade, adversary, and friend, Tom Tusher, returned
from his school in London, a fair, well-grown, and sturdy lad, who was
about to enter college, with an exhibition from his school, and a prospect
of after promotion in