o us in the three days immediately
previous to the grand and final one; for this last day was reserved
the paper of composition (as it was termed) in verse and prose, and the
personal examination in a few showy, but generally understood, subjects.
When Gerald gave in his paper, and answered the verbal questions, a
buzz of admiration and anxiety went round the room. His person was so
handsome, his address so graceful, his voice so assured and clear,
that a strong and universal sympathy was excited in his favour. The
head-master publicly complimented him. He regretted only the deficiency
of his pupil in certain minor but important matters. I came next, for I
stood next to Gerald in our class. As I walked up the hall, I raised my
eyes to the gallery in which my uncle and his party sat. I saw that
my mother was listening to the Abbe, whose eye, severe, cold, and
contemptuous, was bent upon me. But my uncle leaned over the railing of
the gallery, with his plumed hat in his hand, which, when he caught my
look, he waved gently,--as if in token of encouragement, and with an air
so kind and cheering, that I felt my step grow prouder as I approached
the conclave of the masters.

"Morton Devereux," said the president of the school, in a calm, loud,
austere voice, that filled the whole hall, "we have looked over your
papers on the three previous days, and they have given us no less
surprise than pleasure. Take heed and time how you answer us now."

At this speech a loud murmur was heard in my uncle's party, which
gradually spread round the hall. I again looked up: my mother's face was
averted; that of the Abbe was impenetrable; but I saw my uncle wiping
his eyes, and felt a strange emotion creeping into my own, I turned
hastily away, and presented my paper; the head master received it, and,
putting it aside, proceeded to the verbal examination. Conscious of the
parts in which Gerald was likely to fail, I had paid especial attention
to the minutiae of scholarship, and my forethought stood me in good
stead at the present moment. My trial ceased; my last paper was read. I
bowed, and retired to the other end of the hall. I was not so popular as
Gerald; a crowd was assembled round him, but I stood alone. As I leaned
against a column, with folded arms, and a countenance which I felt
betrayed little of my internal emotions, my eye caught Gerald's. He
was very pale, and I could see that his hand trembled. Despite of our
enmity, I felt for