den modesty, for he
forbore to task mine by any new interrogatory.

Dudley Ruthyn's cool and resolute denial of ever having seen me or the
places I had named, and the inflexible serenity of his countenance while
doing so, did very much shake my confidence in my own identification of
him. I could not be _quite_ certain that the person I had seen at Church
Scarsdale was the very same whom I afterwards saw at Knowl. And now, in
this particular instance, after the lapse of a still longer period, could I
be perfectly certain that my memory, deceived by some accidental points of
resemblance, had not duped me, and wronged my cousin, Dudley Ruthyn?

I suppose my uncle had expected from me some signs of acquiesence in his
splendid estimate of his cub, and was nettled at my silence. After a short
interval he said--

'I've seen something of the world in my day, and I can say without a
misgiving of partiality, that Dudley is the material of a perfect English
gentleman. I am not blind, of course--the training must be supplied; a year
or two of good models, active self-criticism, and good society. I simply
say that the _material_ is there.'

Here was another interval of silence.

'And now tell me, child, what these recollections of
Church--Church--_what_?'

'Church Scarsdale,' I replied.

'Yes, thank you--Church Scarsdale and Knowl--are?'

So I related my stories as well as I could.

'Well, dear Maud, the adventure of Church Scarsdale is hardly so terrific
as I expected,' said Uncle Silas with a cold little laugh; 'and I don't
see, if he had really been the hero of it, why he should shrink from
avowing it. I know I should not. And I really can't say that your pic-nic
party in the grounds of Knowl has frightened me much more. A lady waiting
in the carriage, and two or three tipsy young men. Her presence seems to
me a guarantee that no mischief was meant; but champagne is the soul of
frolic, and a row with the gamekeepers a natural consequence. It happened
to me once--forty years ago, when I was a wild young buck--one of the worst
rows I ever was in.'

And Uncle Silas poured some eau-de-cologne over the corner of his
handkerchief, and touched his temples with it.

'If my boy had been there, I do assure you--and I know him--he would say so
at once. I fancy he would rather _boast_ of it. I never knew him utter an
untruth. When you know him a little you'll say so.'

With these words Uncle Silas leaned back exhausted, and lan