. In the past when he had fallen and had
braced himself up again, he had sworn to himself that he would be strong
thereafter--that he would never, never yield to the temptation to touch
wine again. But he had not been strong. And now he looked the deplorable
truth straight in the face. He hoped with all his soul that he would not
fall again. He would give everything he possessed to ensure himself from
yielding to the temptation to taste the wild exhilaration--the
freedom--the forgetfulness--to say to the cup "Nevermore"--to ensure
himself from having to pay the price of his yielding in the agony of
remorse that was a descent into hell.

But he would deceive himself with no lying pledges. He hoped--he longed
to be strong; but he could not swear that he would be--he did not know
whether he would be or not. The temptation was not upon him now--he
loathed the very thought of it now; but the temptation would most
certainly return sooner or later. He hoped from the bottom of his soul
that he would resist it, but he feared--nay, in his secret heart he
believed--that he would yield. And because he believed it he loathed
himself.

As he drew near the office he thought of Mr. Graham,--how kind he
was--how trustful. He wondered if Mr. Graham knew the cause of his
illnesses and if not how long it would before he would know it; and if
the attacks were repeated how long he would be able to hold the place
that had shown him the end of the rainbow? How bitter it would be to
some day find, added to all the other disastrous results of his weakness
of will--to find another in the editorial chair of _Graham's_.

Just at this point in his soliliquy he reached his destination. He
mounted the steps leading to the office of _Graham's Magazine_ and
opened the door--quietly.

For a moment the two men in the office--each deep in his own work--were
unaware of his presence, and he stood staring upon their backs as they
sat at their desks. Mr. Graham was in his accustomed seat and in
his--The Dreamer's--the giant frame of the man whose big brain he
admired--though he was "no poet,"--the frame of Rufus Griswold!

Horror clutched his heart. Mr. Graham evidently knew, and knowing had
supplied his place without deeming him worth the trouble of notifying,
even. Had supplied it, moreover, with the one man who he himself
believed would fill it with credit. The readers would be satisfied. He
would not be missed. He turned and stumbled blindly down the