"Well, sir, I cannot exactly say that it was; but I must say, sir, that
I do think it peculiar of you, peculiar of you, sir, to come here and
attack one of your friends, who, I am sure, has always showed you so
much kindness--to attack him, sir, with no proof."

Now Mr. Snale had not openly denied his authorship. But the use of the
word "friend" was essentially a lie--just one of those lies which, by
avoiding the form of a lie, have such a charm for a mind like his. I
was roused to indignation.

"Mr. Snale, I will give you the proof which you want, and then you
shall judge for yourself. The letter contains two lines of a hymn
which you have misquoted. You made precisely that blunder in talking
to the Sunday-school children on the Sunday before the letter appeared.
You will remember that in accordance with my custom to visit the
Sunday-school occasionally, I was there on that Sunday afternoon."

"Well, sir, I've not denied I did write it."

"Denied you did write it!" I exclaimed, with gathering passion; "what
do you mean by the subterfuge about your passing through the town and
by your calling me your friend a minute ago? What would you have
thought if anybody had written anonymously to the Sentinel, and had
accused you of selling short measure? You would have said it was a
libel, and you would also have said that a charge of that kind ought to
be made publicly and not anonymously. You seem to think, nevertheless,
that it is no sin to ruin me anonymously."

"Mr. Rutherford, I AM sure I am your friend. I wish you well, sir,
both here"--and Mr. Snale tried to be very solemn--"and in the world to