ght
indeed that he should be able to give it up all at once. He was tender
with her, but he wished often that she could understand him without
explanation on his part. Many a time he took out the little bottle with
a reckless hand, but conquered himself. He got most help, perhaps,
from the honest, cheerful eye of Medallion and the stumbling timorous
affection of the Little Chemist. They were perfectly disinterested
friends--his wife at times made him aware that he had done her a wrong,
for he had married her with thus appetite on him. He did not defend
himself, but he wished she would--even if she had to act it--make him
believe in himself more. One morning against his will he was irritable
with her, and she said something that burnt like caustic. He smiled
ironically, and pushed his newspaper over to her, pointing to a
paragraph. It was the announcement that an old admirer of hers whom she
had passed by for her husband, had come into a fortune. "Perhaps you've
made a mistake," he said.

She answered nothing, but the look she gave was unfortunate for both. He
muffled his mouth in his long silken beard as if to smother what he felt
impelled to say, then suddenly rose and left the table.

At this time he had reduced his dose of the drug to eight drops twice a
day. With a grim courage he resolved to make it five all at once. He
did so, and held to it. Medallion was much with him in these days. One
morning in the spring he got up, went out in his garden, drew in the
fresh, sweet air with a great gulp, picked some lovely crab-apple
blossoms, and, with a strange glowing look in his eyes, came in to his
wife, put them into her hands, and kissed her. It was the anniversary
of their wedding-day. Then, without a word, he took from his pocket the
little phial that he had carried so long, rolled it for an instant in
his palm, felt its worn, discoloured cork musingly, and threw it out of
the window.

"Now, my dear," he whispered, "we will be happy again."

He held to his determination with a stern anxiety. He took a month's
vacation, and came back better. He was not so happy as he hoped to
be; yet he would not whisper to himself the reason why. He felt that
something had failed him somewhere.

One day a man came riding swiftly up to his door to say that his wife's
father had met with a bad accident in his great mill. Secord told
his wife. A peculiar troubled look came into his face as he glanced
carefully over his instruments