“I can believe that.  Let me see.  Do you know the conscience of that publisher who once stole some sketches of mine for a ‘series’ of his, and then left me to pay the law expenses I had to incur in order to choke him off?”

“Yes.  He has a wide fame.  He was exhibited, a month ago, with some other antiquities, for the benefit of a recent Member of the Cabinet’s conscience that was starving in exile.  Tickets and fares were high, but I traveled for nothing by pretending to be the conscience of an editor, and got in for half-price by representing myself to be the conscience of a clergyman.  However, the publisher’s conscience, which was to have been the main feature of the entertainment, was a failure—­as an exhibition.  He was there, but what of that?  The management had provided a microscope with a magnifying power of only thirty thousand diameters, and so nobody got to see him, after all.  There was great and general dissatisfaction, of course, but—­”

Just here there was an eager footstep on the stair; I opened the door, and my aunt Mary burst into the room.  It was a joyful meeting and a cheery bombardment of questions and answers concerning family matters ensued.  By and by my aunt said: 

“But I am going to abuse you a little now.  You promised me, the day I saw you last, that you would look after the needs of the poor family around the corner as faithfully as I had done it myself.  Well, I found out by accident that you failed of your promise.  Was that right?”

In simple truth, I never had thought of that family a second time!  And now such a splintering pang of guilt shot through me!  I glanced up at my Conscience.  Plainly, my heavy heart was affecting him.  His body was drooping forward; he seemed about to fall from the bookcase.  My aunt continued: 

“And think how you have neglected my poor protege at the almshouse, you dear, hard-hearted promise-breaker!” I blushed scarlet, and my tongue was tied.  As the sense of my guilty negligence waxed sharper and stronger, my Conscience began to sway heavily back and forth; and when my aunt, after a little pause, said in a grieved tone, “Since you never once went to see her, maybe it will not distress you now to know that that poor child died, months ago, utterly friendless and forsaken!” My Conscience could no longer bear up under the weight of my sufferings, but tumbled headlong from his high perch and struck the floor with a dull, leaden thump.  He lay there writhing with pain and quaking with apprehension, but straining every muscle in frantic efforts to get up.  In a fever of expectancy I sprang to the door, locked it, placed my back against it, and bent a watchful gaze upon my struggling master.  Already my fingers were itching to begin their murderous work.

“Oh, what can be the matter!” exclaimed by aunt, shrinking from me, and following with her frightened eyes the direction of mine.  My breath was coming in short, quick gasps now, and my excitement was almost uncontrollable.  My aunt cried out: