sensation which was as if his body were being pricked
with ten million needles. It was as though his whole nervous system had
given way at every minute point and division. For the time being he was
intensely frightened, believing that he was going crazy, but he said
nothing. It came to him as a staggering truth that the trouble with him
was over-indulgence physically; that the remedy was abstinence, complete
or at least partial; that he was probably so far weakened mentally and
physically that it would be very difficult for him to recover; that his
ability to paint might be seriously affected--his life blighted.

He stood before his canvas holding his brush, wondering. When the shock
had completely gone he laid the brush down with a trembling hand. He
walked to the window, wiped his cold, damp forehead with his hand and
then turned to get his coat from the closet.

"Where are you going?" asked Angela.

"For a little walk. I'll be back soon. I don't feel just as fresh as I
might."

She kissed him good-bye at the door and let him go, but her heart
troubled her.

"I'm afraid Eugene is going to get sick," she thought. "He ought to stop
work."

CHAPTER X

It was the beginning of a period destined to last five or six years, in
which, to say the least, Eugene was not himself. He was not in any sense
out of his mind, if power to reason clearly, jest sagely, argue and read
intelligently are any evidences of sanity; but privately his mind was a
maelstrom of contradictory doubts, feelings and emotions. Always of a
philosophic and introspective turn, this peculiar faculty of reasoning
deeply and feeling emotionally were now turned upon himself and his own
condition and, as in all such cases where we peer too closely into the
subtleties of creation, confusion was the result. Previously he had been
well satisfied that the world knew nothing. Neither in religion,
philosophy nor science was there any answer to the riddle of existence.
Above and below the little scintillating plane of man's thought
was--what? Beyond the optic strength of the greatest telescope,--far out
upon the dim horizon of space--were clouds of stars. What were they
doing out there? Who governed them? When were their sidereal motions
calculated? He figured life as a grim dark mystery, a sad semiconscious
activity turning aimlessly in the dark. No one knew anything. God knew
nothing--himself least of all. Malevolence, life living on death, plain
viol