that young man. I told you so at the time."

Soulsby nodded, and turned down the wick of his lamp a trifle. "Yes, I
know you did," he remarked in placidly non-contentious tones. "I
can't say I saw much in him myself, but I daresay you're right." There
followed a moment's silence, during which he experimented in turning the
wick up again. "But, anyway," he went on, "there isn't anything you can
do. He'll sleep it off, and the longer he's left alone the better. It
isn't as if we had a hired girl, who'd come down and find him there, and
give the whole thing away. He's fixed up there perfectly comfortable;
and when he's had his sleep out, and wakes up on his own account, he'll
be feeling a heap better."

The argument might have carried conviction, but on the instant the sound
of footsteps came to them from the room below. The subdued noise rose
regularly, as of one pacing to and fro.

"No, Soulsby, YOU come back to bed, and get YOUR sleep out. I'm going
downstairs. It's no good talking; I'm going."

Brother Soulsby offered no further opposition, either by talk or
demeanor, but returned contentedly to bed, pulling the comforter over
his ears, and falling into the slow, measured respiration of tranquil
slumber before his wife was ready to leave the room.

The dim, cold gray of twilight was sifting furtively through the lace
curtains of the front windows when Mrs. Soulsby, lamp in hand, entered
the parlor. She confronted a figure she would have hardly recognized.
The man seemed to have been submerged in a bath of disgrace. From the
crown of his head to the soles of his feet, everything about him was