any young man without first
ascertaining the particulars about him, which I know already about Richard, and
which determine me against doing what would blast his character for life - would
destroy every good quality he has.«
    »What good quality remains to him?« asked Mr. Bradshaw. »He has deceived me
- he has offended God.«
    »Have we not all offended Him?« Mr. Benson said in a low tone.
    »Not consciously. I never do wrong consciously. But Richard - Richard.« The
remembrance of the undeceiving letters - the forgery - filled up his heart so
completely that he could not speak for a minute or two. Yet when he saw Mr.
Benson on the point of saying something, he broke in -
    »It is no use talking, sir. You and I cannot agree on these subjects. Once
more, I desire you to prosecute that boy, who is no longer a child of mine.«
    »Mr. Bradshaw, I shall not prosecute him. I have said it once for all.
To-morrow you will be glad that I do not listen to you. I should only do harm by
saying more at present.«
    There is always something aggravating in being told, that the mood in which
we are now viewing things strongly will not be our mood at some other time. It
implies that our present feelings are blinding us, and that some more
clear-sighted spectator is able to distinguish our future better than we do
ourselves. The most shallow person dislikes to be told that any one can gauge
his depth. Mr. Bradshaw was not soothed by this last remark of Mr. Benson's. He
stooped down to take up his hat and be gone. Mr. Benson saw his dizzy way of
groping, and gave him what he sought for; but he received no word of thanks. Mr.
Bradshaw went silently towards the door, but, just as he got there, he turned
round, and said -
    »If there were more people like me, and fewer like you, there would be less
evil in the world, sir. It's your sentimentalists that nurse up sin.«
    Although Mr. Benson had been very calm during this interview, he had been
much shocked by what had been let out respecting Richard's forgery; not by the
fact itself so much as by what it was a sign of. Still, he had known the young
man from childhood, and had seen, and often regretted, that his want of moral
courage had rendered him peculiarly liable to all the