A DISHONEST Gain was driving in its luxurious¹ carriage through its
private park, when it saw something which frantically² and
repeatedly ran against a stone wall, endeavouring to butt³ out its
brains.

  "Hold!  Hold! thou desperate Object," cried the Dishonest Gain;
"these beautiful private grounds are no place for such work as
thine."

  "True," said the Object, pausing; "I have other and better grounds
for it."

  "Then thou art a happy man," said the Dishonest Gain, "and thy
bleeding head is but mere⁴ dissembling.  Who art thou, great actor?"

  "I am known," said the Object, dashing itself again at the wall,
"as the Consciousness of Duty Well Performed."

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