“I suppose so.”

“That was it, Mr. Harry.  We, none of us, were very fond of the sermons.”

“I dare say not.”

“We in the kitchen.  But we was bound to have them, or we should have lost our places.”

“And now I must lose my place.”  The butler said nothing, but his face assented.  “A little hard, isn’t it, Matthew?  But I wish to say a few words to my uncle,—­not to express any regret about the sermons, but to ask what it is that he intends to do.”  Here Matthew shook his head very slowly.  “He has given positive orders that I shall not be admitted?”

“It must be over my dead body, Mr. Harry,” and he stood in the way with the door in his hand, as though intending to sacrifice himself should he be called upon to do so by the nature of the circumstances.  Harry, however, did not put him to the test; but bidding him good-bye with some little joke as to his fidelity, made his way back to the parsonage.

That night before he went to bed he wrote a letter to his uncle, as to which he said not a word to either his father, or mother, or sisters.  He thought that the letter was a good letter, and would have been proud to show it; but he feared that either his father or mother would advise him not to send it, and he was ashamed to read it to Molly.  He therefore sent the letter across the park the next morning by the gardener.

The letter was as follows: 

“My dear uncle,—­My father has shown me your letter to him, and, of course, I feel it incumbent on me to take some notice of it.  Not wishing to trouble you with a letter I called this morning, but I was told by Matthew that you would not see me.  As you have expressed yourself to my father very severely as to my conduct, I am sure you will agree with me that I ought not to let the matter pass by without making my own defence.

“You say that there was a row in the streets between Mountjoy Scarborough and myself in which he was ‘left for dead.’  When I left him I did not think he had been much hurt, nor have I had reason to think so since.  He had attacked me, and I had simply defended myself.  He had come upon me by surprise; and, when I had shaken him off, I went away.  Then in a day or two he had disappeared.  Had he been killed, or much hurt, the world would have heard of it:  but the world simply heard that he had disappeared, which could hardly have been the case had he been much hurt.

“Then you say that I denied, in conversation with Augustus Scarborough, that I had seen his brother on the night in question.  I did deny it.  Augustus Scarborough, who was evidently well acquainted with the whole transaction, and who had, I believe, assisted his brother in disappearing, wished to learn from me what I had done, and to hide what he had done.  He wished to saddle me with the disgrace of his brother’s departure, and I did not choose to fall into his trap.  At the moment of his asking me he knew that his brother was safe.  I think that the word ‘lie,’ as used by you, is very severe for such an occurrence.  A man is not generally held to be bound to tell everything respecting himself to the first person that shall ask him.  If you will ask any man who knows the world,—­my father, for instance,—­I think you will be told that such conduct was not faulty.