of bitter
ale.

"This is a great day," Hilliard then exclaimed. "I left Dudley this
afternoon feeling ready to cut my throat. Now I'm a free man, with the
world before me."

"How's that?"

"Emily's going to take a second husband--that's one thing."

"Heaven be praised! Better than one could have looked for."

Hilliard related the circumstances. Then he drew from his pocket an
oblong slip of paper, and held it out.

"Dengate?" cried his friend. "How the deuce did you get hold of this?"

Explanation followed. They debated Dengate's character and motives.

"I can understand it," said Narramore. "When I was a boy of twelve I
once cheated an apple-woman out of three-halfpence. At the age of
sixteen I encountered the old woman again, and felt immense
satisfaction in giving her a shilling. But then, you see, I had done
with petty cheating; I wished to clear my conscience, and look my
fellow-woman in the face."

"That's it, no doubt. He seems to have got some sort of position in
Liverpool society, and he didn't like the thought that there was a poor
devil at Dudley who went about calling him a scoundrel. By-the-bye,
someone told him that I had taken to liquor, and was on my way to
destruction generally. I don't know who it could be."

"Oh, we all have candid friends that talk about us.

"It's true I have been drunk now and then of late. There's much to be
said for getting drunk."

"Much," assented Narramore, philosophically.

Hilliard went on with his supper; his friend puffed tobacco, and idly
regarded the cheque he was still holding.

"And what are you going to do?" he asked at length.

There came no reply, and several minutes passed in silence. Then
Hilliard rose from the table, paced the floor once or twice, selected a
cigar from a box that caught his eye, and, in cutting off the end,
observed quietly--

"I'm going to live."

"Wait a minute. We'll have the table cleared, and a kettle on the fire."

While the servant was busy, Hilliard stood with an elbow on the
mantelpiece, thoughtfully smoking his cigar. At Narramore's request, he
mixed two tumblers of whisky toddy, then took a draught from his own,
and returned to his former position.

"Can't you sit down?" said Narramore.

"No, I can't."

"What a fellow you are! With nerves like yours, I should have been in
my grave years ago. You're going to live, eh?"

"Going to be a machine no longer. Can I call myself a man? There's
precious little diffe