Heim, his hands crossed behind him and his head sunk upon his breast, walked slowly along by the side of Leuthold, whose slender figure had recovered all its former elasticity as he easily wound his way among the tangled bushes and weeds in the neglected path. "I cannot tell how a lawyer would designate your conduct," the old man said meditatively. "I should not call it magnanimous; but you may be able to justify it from your point of view. Still, one never knows what to expect of such long-headed, calculating people." "Yes, Herr Geheimrath, it is the destiny of those who depend upon themselves alone for whatever of good life may bring them, to be regarded as covetous,--they must grasp after what falls unsought for into the lap of others. In this matter I not only did what I could for myself, but for the future also. Herr Geheimrath, I am a father!" "Yes, yes; but you were not a father at the time that you arranged with Hartwich his testamentary dispositions," Heim briefly interposed. "Only two months afterwards my wife gave birth to a dead son. From the first moment when I dreamed of one day possessing a child for whom I could prepare a future, I cherished a determination to hold fast to whatever was mine by right. I think you cannot refuse to bear witness that I have endured the destruction of all my hopes with fortitude. My wife has left me, refusing to share with me my cheerless future. I stand alone with my helpless child. You have heard no word of complaint from my lips. Examine yourself, and your upright nature will compel you to acknowledge that I do not deserve your distrust. And now, as regards the last and weightiest consideration,--my relation to my ward,--ask any one whom you may please to interrogate here, whether I have not always been Ernestine's advocate and protector. Every servant in the house--the child herself--will tell you that it has been so. Upon this point my conscience cannot accuse me. For, look you, Herr Geheimrath, this child is the only living being in this world, besides my own daughter, whom I have to love. There is one spot in my nature, hardened as it is by the rough usage of life, that has always remained soft,--the memory of my unhappy childhood. In Ernestine I am reminded of my own early youth, and there is a tender satisfaction in providing her with so much that at her age I was obliged to deny myself. Leave me this child, Herr Geheimrath; I am a poor, unhappy, disappointed man. Do not take from me the last thing that stirs the better nature within me,--it would be too hard!" Heim stood still for an instant, and seemed about to speak. He bethought himself and walked on a few steps, then paused again: "The case is not psychologically improbable. You may feel as you say, and you may invent it all. What guarantee have I for its truth?"