"but you will own that want seldom allows great nicety in moral
distinctions, and that when those whom you love most in the world are
starving, you may be pitied, if not forgiven, for losing sight of the
after laws of Nature and recurring to her first ordinance, self-
preservation."

"We should be harsh, indeed," answered Glendower, "if we did not pity;
or, even while the law condemned, if the individual did not forgive."

"So I said, so I said," cried Crauford; "and in interceding for the
poor fellow, whose pardon I am happy to say I procured, I could not
help declaring that, if I were placed in the same circumstances, I am
not sure that my crime would not have been the same."

"No man could feel sure!" said Glendower, dejectedly. Delighted and
surprised with this confession, Crauford continued: "I believe,--I
fear not; thank God, our virtue can never be so tried: but even you,
Glendower, even you, philosopher, moralist as you are,--just, good,
wise, religious,--even you might be tempted, if you saw your angel
wife dying for want of the aid, the very sustenance, necessary to
existence, and your innocent and beautiful daughter stretch her little
hands to you and cry in the accents of famine for bread."

The student made no reply for a few moments, but averted his
countenance, and then in a slow tone said, "Let us drop this subject:
none know their strength till they are tried; self-confidence should
accompany virtue, but not precede it."

A momentary flash broke from the usually calm, cold eye of Richard
Crauford. "He is mine," thought he: "the very name of want abases his