“Pardon me, Mr. Snale, do you then consider what I have said is an accusation and charge? Do you think that it was wrong to write such a letter?” “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 come. With regard to the letter, I don’t see it as you do, sir. But, sir, if you are going to talk in this tone, I would advise you to be careful. We have heard, sir”—and here Mr. Snale began to simper and grin with an indescribably loathsome grimace—“that some of your acquaintances in your native town are of opinion that you have not behaved quite so well as you should have done to a certain young lady of your acquaintance; and what is more, we have marked with pain here, sir, your familiarity with an atheist and his daughter, and we have noticed their coming to chapel, and we have also noticed a change in your doctrine since these parties attended there.” At the word “daughter” Mr. Snale grinned again, apparently to somebody behind me, and I found that one of his shopwomen had entered the counting-house, unobserved by me, while this conversation was going on, and that she was smirking in reply to Mr. Snale’s signals. In a moment the blood rushed to my brain. I was as little able to control myself as if I had been shot suddenly down a precipice. “Mr. Snale, you are a contemptible scoundrel and a liar.” The effort on him was comical. He cried: