The good Archdeacon ruminated, asked a few questions, and then said, without hesitation: 

“I cannot see your difficulty.  Your course is clear.  You are responsible—­”

“To a certain degree.”

“To a certain degree for the action of an extremely injudicious friend or relation who writes a letter which will get him and others into trouble.  It providentially falls into your hands.  If I were in your place I should destroy it, inform your friend that I had done so principally for his own sake, and endeavor to bring him to a better mind on the subject.”

“Supposing the burning of the letter entailed a money loss?”

“I judge from what you say of this particular letter that any money that accrued from it would be ill-gotten gains.”

“Oh! decidedly.”

“Then burn it; and if your friend remains obstinate he can always write it again; but we must hope that by gaining time you will be able to arouse his better feelings, and at least induce him to moderate its tone.”

“Of course he could write it again if he remains obstinate.  I never thought of that,” said Mr. Gresley, in a low voice.  “So he would not eventually lose the money if he was still decided to gain it in an unscrupulous manner.  Or I could help him to rewrite it.  I never thought of that before.”

“Your course is perfectly clear, my dear Gresley,” said the Archdeacon, not impatiently, but as one who is ready to open up a new subject.  “Your tender conscience alone makes the difficulty.  Is not Mrs. Gresley endeavoring to attract our attention?”

Mrs. Gresley was beckoning them in to tea.

When the Archdeacon had departed, Mr. Gresley said to his wife:  “I have talked over the matter with him, not mentioning names, of course.  He is a man of great judgment.  He advises me to burn it.”

“Hester’s book?”

“Yes.”

“He is quite right, I think,” said Mrs. Gresley, her hands trembling, as she took up her work.  Hester would never forgive her brother if he did that.  It would certainly cause a quarrel between them.  Young married people did best without a third person in the house.

“Will you follow his advice?” she asked.

“I don’t know.  I—­you see—­poor Hester!—­it has taken her a long time to write.  I wish to goodness she would leave writing alone.”

“She is coming home this evening,” said his wife, significantly.

Mr. Gresley abruptly left the room, and went back to his study.  He was irritated, distressed.

Providence seemed to have sent the Archdeacon to advise him.  And the Archdeacon had spoken with decision.  “Burn it,” that was what he had said, “and tell your friend that you have done so.”

It did not strike Mr. Gresley that the advice might have been somewhat different if the question had been respecting the burning of a book instead of a letter.  Such subtleties had never been allowed to occupy Mr. Gresley’s mind.  He was, as he often said, no splitter of hairs.