uit him on merely hearing his defence?

Surely the youth was honest. His tale could not be the fruit of
invention; and yet, what are the bounds of fraud? Nature has set no
limits to the combinations of fancy. A smooth exterior, a show of
virtue, and a specious tale, are, a thousand times, exhibited in human
intercourse by craft and subtlety. Motives are endlessly varied, while
actions continue the same; and an acute penetration may not find it hard
to select and arrange motives, suited to exempt from censure any action
that a human being can commit.

Had I heard Mervyn's story from another, or read it in a book, I might,
perhaps, have found it possible to suspect the truth; but, as long as
the impression made by his tones, gestures, and looks, remained in my
memory, this suspicion was impossible. Wickedness may sometimes be
ambiguous, its mask may puzzle the observer; our judgment may be made to
falter and fluctuate, but the face of Mervyn is the index of an honest
mind. Calm or vehement, doubting or confident, it is full of benevolence
and candour. He that listens to his words may question their truth, but
he that looks upon his countenance when speaking cannot withhold his
faith.

It was possible, however, to find evidence supporting or confuting his
story. I chanced to be acquainted with a family, by name Althorpe, who
were natives of that part of the country where his father resided. I
paid them a visit, and, after a few preliminaries, mentioned, as if by
accident, the name of Mervyn. They immediately recognised this name as
belonging to one of their ancient neighbours. The death of the wife and
sons, and the seduction of the only daughter by Colvill, with many
pathetic incidents connected with the fate of this daughter, were
mentioned.

This intelligence induced me to inquire of Mrs. Althorpe, a sensible and
candid woman, if she were acquainted with the recent or present
situation of this family.

"I cannot say much," she answered, "of my own knowledge. Since my
marriage, I am used to spend a few weeks of summer at my father's, but
am less inquisitive than I once was into the concerns of my old
neighbours. I recollect, however, when there, last year, during _the
fever_, to have heard that Sawny Mervyn had taken a second wife; that
his only son, a youth of eighteen, had thought proper to be highly
offended with his father's conduct, and treated the new mistress of the
house with insult and contempt. I should n