“Ahem! Ahem! Ahem! Fellow-sufferers, or rather suffering fellows--” (“Don't call 'em names!” muttered the man under the window. “I didn't say felons!” the Chancellor explained.) “You may be sure that I always sympa--” (“'Ear, 'ear!” shouted the crowd, so loudly as quite to drown the orator's thin squeaky voice) “--that I always sympa--” he repeated. (“Don't simper quite so much!” said the man under the window. “It makes yer look a hidiot!” And, all this time, “'Ear, 'ear!” went rumbling round the market-place, like a peal of thunder.) “That I always sympathise!” yelled the Chancellor, the first moment there was silence. “But your true friend is the Sub-Warden! Day and night he is brooding on your wrongs--I should say your rights--that is to say your wrongs--no, I mean your rights--” (“Don't talk no more!” growled the man under the window. “You're making a mess of it!”) At this moment the Sub-Warden entered the saloon. He was a thin man, with a mean and crafty face, and a greenish-yellow complexion; and he crossed the room very slowly, looking suspiciously about him as if he thought there might be a savage dog hidden somewhere. “Bravo!” he cried, patting the Chancellor on the back. “You did that speech very well indeed. Why, you're a born orator, man!” “Oh, that's nothing!” the Chancellor replied, modestly, with downcast eyes. “Most orators are born, you know.” The Sub-Warden thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Why, so they are!” he admitted. “I never considered it in that light. Still, you did it very well. A word in your ear!” The rest of their conversation was all in whispers: so, as I could hear no more, I thought I would go and find Bruno. I found the little fellow standing in the passage, and being addressed by one of the men in livery, who stood before him, nearly bent double from extreme respectfulness, with his hands hanging in front of him like the fins of a fish. “His High Excellency,” this respectful man was saying, “is in his Study, y'reince!” (He didn't pronounce this quite so well as the Chancellor.) Thither Bruno trotted, and I thought it well to follow him. The Warden, a tall dignified man with a grave but very pleasant face, was seated before a writing-table, which was covered with papers, and holding on his knee one of the sweetest and loveliest little maidens it has ever been my lot to see. She looked four or five years older than Bruno, but she had the same rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and the same wealth of curly brown hair. Her eager smiling face was turned upwards towards her father's, and it was a pretty sight to see the mutual love with which the two faces--one in the Spring of Life, the other in its late Autumn--were gazing on each other.