r hundred dollars. After taking up his note, he called upon his
friend Wilkinson with the two hundred dollars he had failed to return
the day before, when, after apologizing for his neglect, he asked him
how he would be off in regard to money matters during the ensuing two
weeks.

"Tight as a drum," was answered.

"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Ellis, showing more disappointment
than he wished to appear; "for I have made some calculation on you. I
have nearly two thousand dollars to take care of in the next ten days."

"I wish I could help you. But, indeed, I can not," said Wilkinson,
looking serious. "I have been a good deal crowded of late, and shall
have my hands full, and more than full for some time to come. I never
knew money so tight as it is just now."

"Nor I neither. Well, I suppose we shall get through somehow. But I
must own that things look dark."

"The darkest hour is just before the break of day," said Wilkinson,
with an earnestness that expressed his faith in what he said. His faith
was born of a resolution to separate himself from all dangerous
companionship and habits, and a deeply felt conviction of the
all-sustaining strength of his wife's self-denying affection.

"Yes--yes--so the proverb says, and so the poet sings," returned Ellis,
thoughtfully. "This seems to be my darkest hour. God grant it be only
the precursor of day!"

"Amen!" The solemn response of Wilkinson was involuntary.

"And so you can't help me?" said Ellis, recovering himself, and
speaking in a more cheerful voice.

"Indeed I cannot."

"Well, help will come, I suppose. There is nothing like trying. So good
morning. Time is too precious to waste just now."

Between the store of Wilkinson and that of Ellis was a refectory, where
the latter often repaired for a lunch and something to drink about
eleven or twelve o'clock. It was now twelve, and, as Ellis had taken
only a light breakfast, and omitted his morning dram, he felt both
hungry and dry. Almost as a matter of course, he was about entering
this drinking-house, when, as he stepped on the threshold, his eyes
rested on the form of Carlton, standing by the bar with a glass in his
hand. Quickly he turned away, and kept on to his store, where he
quenched his thirst with a copious draught of ice-water. Not a drop of
liquor had passed his lips when he went home at dinner-time. And he was
as free from its influence when he joined his family at the close of
day. Cara receiv