o his house; and if Beecher admired
Tilton's wife--why, was not this a proof that Tilton and Beecher were
alike? I guess so! Mrs. Tilton was musical, artistic, keen of brain,
emotional, with all a fine-fibered woman's longings, hopes and ideals.

So matters went drifting on the tide, and the years went by, as the
years will.

Mrs. Tilton became a semi-invalid, the kind that doctors now treat with
hypophosphites, beef-iron-and-wine, cod-liver oil, and massage by the
right attendant. They call it congenital anemia--a scarcity of the red
corpuscle.

Some doctors there be who do not yet know that the emotions control the
secretions, and a perfect circulation is a matter of mind. Anyway, what
can the poor Galenite do in a case like this--his pills are powerless,
his potions inane! Tilton knew that his wife loved Beecher, and he also
fully realized that in this she was only carrying out a little of the
doctrine of freedom that he taught, and that he claimed for himself. For
a time Tilton was beautifully magnanimous. Occasionally Mrs. Tilton had
spells of complete prostration, when she thought she was going to die.
At such times her husband would send for Beecher to come and administer
extreme unction.

Instead of dying, the woman would get well.

After one such attack, Tilton taunted his wife with her quick recovery.
It was a taunt that pulled tight on the corners of his mouth; it was
lacking in playfulness. Beecher was present at the bedside of the
propped-up invalid. They turned on Tilton, did these two, and flayed him
with their agile wit and ready tongues. Tilton protested they were
wrong--he was not jealous--the idea!

But that afternoon he had his hair cut, and he discarded the slouch-hat
for one with a stiff brim.

It took six months for his hair to grow to a length sufficient to
indicate genius.

* * * * *

Beecher's great heart was wrung and stung by the tangle of events in
which he finally found himself plunged. That his love for Mrs. Tilton
was great there is no doubt, and for the wife with whom he had lived for
over a score of years he had a profound pity and regard. She had not
grown with him. Had she remained in Lawrenceburg, Indiana, and married a
well-to-do grocer, all for her would have been well. Beecher belonged to
the world, and this his wife never knew: she thought she owned him. To
interest her and to make her shine before the world, certain literary
productions