knees in a chair at the window, and I
could see her. She stood there so long, and it seemed so cruel that I
should be in a warm room while she was out in the cold, that I slipped
out and closed the door softly after me. I stood a short distance
behind her, and I had not been standing there long when a horse,
covered with snow, came stumbling out of the darkness. Mother called
me, and I ran to her. We went down the road, holding the lantern first
one side, then the other, that we might see into the corners of the
fences. We found him lying dead in the road, covered with snow. Mother
was never well after that night--but really I am neglecting my work."

He returned to his desk. The proof-sheets of a leading article were
brought to him, but he sat gazing at naught that he could see.

"Are you done with those proofs?" some one asked.

"Take them away," he said, without looking up. He sat for a long time,
musing, and then he shook himself, a habit which he had lately formed
in trying to free himself from meditations that sought to possess him.

He went out to luncheon, and just as he was going into a restaurant
some one spoke to him. It was old man Colton.

"My dear Mr. Witherspoon," said the old man, "come and have a bite to
eat with me. Ah, come on, now; no excuse. Let's go this way. I know of
a place that will just suit you. This way. I'm no hand for clubs--they
bore me; they are newfangled."

The old man conducted him into a basement restaurant not noticeable
for cleanliness, but strong with a smell of mutton.

"Now, suppose we try a little broth," said the old man, when they had
sat down. "Two bowls of mutton broth," he added, speaking to the
waiter. "Ah," he went on, "you may talk about your dishes, but at
noontime there is nothing that can touch broth. And besides," he
added, in a whisper, "there's no robbery in broth. These restaurant
fellows are skinners of the worst order. I'll tell you, my dear Mr.
Witherspoon, everything teaches us to practice economy. We must do
it; it's the saving clause of life. Now, what could be better than
this? Go back to work, and your head's clear. My dear Mr. Witherspoon,
if I had been a spendthrift, I should not only be a pauper--I should
have been dead long ago."

He continued to talk on the virtues of economy. "Won't you have some
more broth?"

"No, thank you."

"Won't you have something else?" he asked, in a tone that implied
extreme fear.

"No, I'm not hungry to-day."