O, love, deliver us.
The flung cup rolls to her sandal's tip,
His arm--"

Linton said: "I can't seem to get the lines to describe the man who is
dying of the poison on the floor before her. Really I'm having a time
with it. What a bore. Sometimes I can write like mad and other times I
don't seem to have an intelligent idea in my head."

He felt his wife's hand tighten on his arm and he looked into her face.
It was so alight with horror that it brought him sharply out of his
dreams. "Jack," she repeated tremulously, "you are ill."

He opened his eyes in wonder. "Ill! ill? No; not in the least!"

"Yes, you are ill. I can see it in your eyes. You--act so strangely."

"Act strangely? Why, my dear, what have I done? I feel quite well.
Indeed, I was never more fit in my life."

As he spoke he threw himself into a large wing chair and looked up at
his wife, who stood gazing at him from the other side of the black oak
table upon which Linton wrote his verses.

"Jack, dear," she almost whispered, "I have noticed it for days," and
she leaned across the table to look more intently into his face. "Yes,
your eyes grow more fixed every day--you--you--your head, does it ache,
dear?"

Linton arose from his chair and came around the big table toward his
wife. As he approached her, an expression akin to terror crossed her
face and she drew back as in fear, holding out both hands to ward him
off.

He had been smiling in the manner of a man reassuring a frightened
child, but at her shrinking from his outstretched hand he stopped in
amazement. "Why, Grace, what is it? tell me."

She was glaring at him, her eyes wide with misery. Linton moved his left
hand across his face, unconsciously trying to brush from it that which
alarmed her.

"Oh, Jack, you must see some one; I am wretched about you. You are ill!"

"Why, my dear wife," he said, "I am quite, quite well; I am anxious to
finish these verses but words won't come somehow, the man dying--"

"Yes, that is it, you cannot remember, you see that you cannot remember.
You must see a doctor. We will go up to town at once," she answered
quickly.

"'Tis true," he thought, "that my memory is not as good as it used to
be. I cannot remember dates, and words won't fit in somehow. Perhaps I
don't take enough exercise, dear; is that what worries you?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, dear, you do not go out enough," said his wife. "You cling to
this room as the ivy clings to the walls