Der Praefekt

best judge of his own position.”
     
    “A man is the best judge of what he feels himself.  I’d sooner beg my
    bread till my death than read such another article as those two that
    have appeared, and feel, as I do, that the writer has truth on his
    side.”
     
    “Have you not a daughter, Mr Harding—an unmarried daughter?”
     
    “I have,” said he, now standing also, but still playing away on his
    fiddle with his hand behind his back.  “I have, Sir Abraham; and she
    and I are completely agreed on this subject.”
     
    “Pray excuse me, Mr Harding, if what I say seems impertinent; but
    surely it is you that should be prudent on her behalf.  She is young,
    and does not know the meaning of living on an income of a hundred and
    sixty pounds a year.  On her account give up this idea.  Believe me,
    it is sheer Quixotism.”
     
    The warden walked away to the window, and then back to his chair; and
    then, irresolute what to say, took another turn to the window. Die
    attorney-general was really extremely patient, but he was beginning to
    think that the interview had been long enough.
     
    “But if this income be not justly mine, what if she and I have both to
    beg?” said the warden at last, sharply, and in a voice so different
    from that he had hitherto used, that Sir Abraham was startled. “Wenn
    so, it would be better to beg.”
     
    “My dear sir, nobody now questions its justness.”
     
    “Yes, Sir Abraham, one does question it,—the most important of all
    witnesses against me;—I question it myself.  My God knows whether or
    no I love my daughter; but I would sooner that she and I should both
    beg, than that she should live in comfort on money which is truly the
    property of the poor.  It may seem strange to you, Sir Abraham, it is
    strange to myself, that I should have been ten years in that happy
    home, and not have thought of these things till they were so roughly
    dinned into my ears.  I cannot boast of my conscience, when it
    required the violence of a public newspaper to awaken it; but, now
    that it is awake, I must obey it.  When I came here, I did not know
    that the suit was withdrawn by Mr Bold, and my object was to beg
    you to abandon my defence.  As there is no action, there can be no
    defence; but it is, at any rate, as well that you should know that
    from to-morrow I shall cease to be the warden of the hospital. Meine
    friends and I differ on this subject, Sir Abraham, and that adds much
    to my sorrow; but it cannot be helped.”  And, as he finished what he
    had to say, he played up such a tune as never before had graced the
    chambers of any attorney-general.  He was standing up, gallantly
    fronting Sir Abraham, and his right arm passed with bold and rapid
    sweeps before him, as though he were embracing some huge instrument,
    which allowed him to stand thus erect; and with the fingers of his
    left hand he stopped, with preternatural velocity, a multitude of
    strings, which ranged from the top of his collar to the bottom of
    the lappet of his coat.  Sir Abraham listened and looked in wonder.
    As he had never before seen Mr Harding, the meaning of these wild
    gesticulations was lost upon him; but he perceived that the gentleman
    who had a few minutes since been so subdued as to be unable to speak
    without hesitation, was now impassioned,—nay, almost violent.
     
    “You’ll sleep on this, Mr Harding, and to-morrow—”
     
    “I have done more than sleep upon it,” said the warden; “I have lain
    awake upon it, and that night after night.  I found I could not sleep
    upon it: now I hope to do so.”
     
    The attorney-general had no answer to make to this; so he expressed
    a quiet hope that whatever settlement was finally made would be
    satisfactory; and Mr Harding withdrew, thanking the great man for
    his kind attention.
     
    Mr Harding was sufficiently satisfied with the interview to feel a
    glow of comfort as he descended into the small old square of Lincoln’s
    Inn.  It was a calm, bright, beautiful night, and by the light of
    the moon, even the chapel of Lincoln’s Inn, and the sombre row of
    chambers, which surround the quadrangle, looked well.  He stood still
    a moment to collect his thoughts, and reflect on what he had done,
    and was about to do.  He knew that the attorney-general regarded him
    as little better than a fool, but that he did not mind; he and the
    attorney-general had not much in common between them; he knew also
    that others, whom he did