the curate spoke in all good faith. Still, he used the very words spoken by the character in the story. This was more than a coincidence. I very nearly jumped out of my seat when this amazing curate concluded his sermon with the longest and most irritating of all the speeches of the fictitious character. He gave it out in tones of calm conviction, but he used once more the identical words of the story.
"I suppose," said my uncle Ambrose at supper, "that you must catch the early train tomorrow as usual."
"No," I said; "if I shan't be in your way, I should like to stay till the afternoon. The fact is I want to have a chat with your curate."
My uncle's eyebrows went up in mild surprise.
"With my curate! Do you know him?"
"No, I don't. But I knew a brother of his very well in college. We rowed in a boat together. The poor fellow is in London now. I fear he is going rapidly to the bad; drink, you know, and other things."
When I lie I always do so with such detail as will carry conviction. It would be the curate's business afterwards, not mine, to explain that fallen brother.
"Ah," said my uncle Ambrose. "Sad, very sad. You're sure to find Metcalf in his lodgings about eleven o'clock. He takes the school at half-past nine, and matins at ten. Then he has the Mothers'
