tones of the youth who stood before him, were indicative of innocence. He had never before felt so perfectly puzzled; still he did say eventually, "Well, my dear madam, I suppose that I must be mistaken—but really!—perhaps, however, you will allow me to call in my gardener?"
"Oh, my dear sir," said Aunt Eleanor, "do so at once, by all means!" And Jones was accordingly summoned.
"Do you know this young gentleman, Jones?" said the pastor.
"Know him, sir!" replied Jones, utterly astonished at the question being asked; "I should know him from a million!"
"But are you sure, Jones, that this is the identical youth whom we saw on the wall just now?"
"Sure!"—echoed Jones, who really felt the idea of his not being sure to be perfectly ridiculous—"Of course, sir, I'm sure."
"Man!" said Aunt Eleanor, "adhere to the truth."
"Oh! that's true enough, ma'am. I'd swear it."
"Swear it!"
"I know him by the cut of his clothes."
"Although, Jones, that is strong collateral evidence," observed the reverend gentleman, profoundly, "I do not hold it to be conclusive. There may be other garments of the same description.—I look at the countenance. Man may copy the works of man, but Nature never copies herself. Among the myriads of human beings in existence there are not even two individuals to be found with features precisely alike, albeit, there may be, as in this case, a striking resemblance. Nor is this amazing peculiarity confined exclusively to the human species. The flocks that range the verdant fields, the beasts which prowl in the frightful jungle, the fish that inhabit the boundless sea, and the birds which float in the balmy air nay, even the very vermin which tunnel the earth have all the same wonderful individuality. Still, as one sheep may be mistaken for another, by those who know not the peculiar expression of that sheep, so may one youth be mistaken for another, as we have, in this case, perhaps, sufficiently proved."
All that Jones understood of this he appreciated, but half of that which reached his understanding was not much. He had no notion at all, however, of giving the thing up in this way, and therefore he said, with much point—"But does the young genelman himself mean to say it aint him?"
"I mean to say," returned Sylvester, calmly, "that I have been fast asleep for the last hour."
"Well, send I may live!" exclaimed Jones.
"Hush! hush!" cried the reverend gentleman.
"Well, but in all my creepings up!" resumed Jones—"Here! take me afore a justice. I'll oath it it's him, afore any judge or jury in nature. But," he added, turning to Sylvester, "do you mean to look me in the face, and tell me that it warnt you as was upon our wall a pegging away at them peaches there?—only say?"
"I hope, my dear aunt," observed Sylvester, with unaffected mildness, "that you do not believe I could have been guilty of such an act?"
"No, my dear; certainly not,"
