a resolution,
could perhaps only thus be dealt with. Besides, in certain folk there
is ever a mysterious itch to write an unsigned letter--such missives
satisfy some obscure sense of justice, some uncontrollable longing to
get even with those who have hurt or disturbed them, without affording
the offenders chance for further hurt or disturbance.

Letters which are posted often reach their destination.

On Wednesday morning Pierson was sitting in his study at the hour
devoted to the calls of his parishioners, when the maid announced,
"Canon Rushbourne, sir," and he saw before him an old College friend
whom he had met but seldom in recent years. His visitor was a
short, grey-haired man of rather portly figure, whose round, rosy,
good-humoured face had a look of sober goodness, and whose light-blue
eyes shone a little. He grasped Pierson's hand, and said in a voice
to whose natural heavy resonance professional duty had added a certain
unction:

"My dear Edward, how many years it is since we met! Do you remember
dear old Blakeway? I saw him only yesterday. He's just the same. I'm
delighted to see you again," and he laughed a little soft nervous laugh.
Then for a few moments he talked of the war and old College days, and
Pierson looked at him and thought: 'What has he come for?'

"You've something to say to me, Alec," he said, at last.

Canon Rushbourne leaned forward in his chair, and answered with evident
effort: "Yes; I wanted to have a little talk with you, Edward. I hope
you won't mind. I do hope you won't."

"Why should I mind?"

Canon Rushbourne's eyes shone more than ever, there was real
friendliness in his face.

"I know you've every right to say to me: 'Mind your own business.' But
I made up my mind to come as a friend, hoping to save you from--er" he
stammered, and began again: "I think you ought to know of the feeling in
your parish that--er--that--er--your position is very delicate. Without
breach of confidence I may tell you that letters have been sent to
headquarters; you can imagine perhaps what I mean. Do believe, my dear
friend, that I'm actuated by my old affection for you; nothing else, I
do assure you."

In the silence, his breathing could be heard, as of a man a little
touched with asthma, while he continually smoothed his thick black
knees, his whole face radiating an anxious kindliness. The sun shone
brightly on those two black figures, so very different, and drew out
of their well-worn ga