THAN A PRIZE-FIGHTER'S."]

_By the Light of the Lamp._

BY HILDA NEWMAN.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY HAL HURST.

-----

A day in bed! Oh! the horror of it to a man who has never ailed anything
in his life! A day away from the excitement (pleasurable or otherwise)
of business, the moving throng of city streets, the anticipated chats
with business friends and casual acquaintances--the world of men.
Nothing to look upon but the four walls of the room, which, in spite of
its cosiness, he only associates with dreams, nightmares, and dull
memories of sleepless nights, and chilly mornings. Nothing to listen to
but the twittering of the canary downstairs, and the distant wrangling
of children in the nursery: no one to speak to but the harassed
housewife, wanted in a dozen places at once, and the pert housemaid,
whose noisiness is distracting. The man lay there, cursing his
helplessness. In spite of his iron will, the unseen enemy, who had
stolen in by night, conquered, holding him down with a hundred tingling
fingers when he attempted to rise, and drawing a misty veil over his
eyes when he tried to read, till at last he was forced to resign
himself, with closed eyes, and turn day into night. But the lowered
blind was a sorry substitute for the time of rest, and brought him no
light, refreshing sleep, so, in the spirit, he occupied his customary
chair at the office, writing and receiving cheques, drawing up new
circulars, and ordering the clerks about in the abrupt, peremptory
manner he thought proper to adopt towards subordinates--the wife
included.

He tortured himself by picturing the disorganisation of the staff in his
enforced absence--for he had grown to believe that nothing could prosper
without his personal supervision, though the head clerk had been ten
years in his employ. Then he remembered an important document, that
should have been signed before, and a foreign letter, which probably
awaited him, and fretted himself into a fever of impatience and
aggravation.

[Illustration: "RETURNING WITH A DAINTILY-SPREAD TRAY."]

Just at the climax of his reflections his wife entered the room. She was
a silent little woman, with weary eyes. Perhaps her burden of household
cares, and the complaints of an exacting husband, had made her
prematurely old, for there were already silver threads among the dark
brown coils of hair that were neatly twisted in a bygone fashion, though
she was young enough to have had a br