parish while I was away. He left suddenly and without adequate reason almost immediately after I had gone abroad."
"Very inconsiderate," I said. "Where did he go to?"
"I never cared to inquire. If he had been offered a living there would have been some excuse for it. But there was nothing of the sort. He was too young a man to be promoted. Fortunately the Bishop was extremely kind and secured the man I have at present."
"Do you ever hear from Metcalf?"
"No. He has not had the decency to write to me. Considering that I was exceedingly kind to him—I think, by the way, I met that brother of his in London on my way home."
"Brother?"
"Yes, the unfortunate young man of whom you spoke to me. I saw him in the Strand on the morn- ing of my arrival. I don't think I could have been mistaken. The likeness was most striking."
I said nothing, because I could not for the moment recollect ever having heard of Metcalf's brother. Afterwards, when my uncle spoke again, the story of that poor fellow came back to me.
"Metcalf was scarcely straightforward about his brother," said my uncle. "I mentioned to him one day that I was glad to hear you were looking after the young fellow. Metcalf appeared to be embarrassed when he heard your name, but he denied
