himself, but he wished she would--even if she had to act it--make him
believe in himself more. One morning against his will he was irritable
with her, and she said something that burnt like caustic. He smiled
ironically, and pushed his newspaper over to her, pointing to a
paragraph. It was the announcement that an old admirer of hers whom she
had passed by for her husband, had come into a fortune. "Perhaps you've
made a mistake," he said.

She answered nothing, but the look she gave was unfortunate for both.
He muffled his mouth in his long silken beard as if to smother what he
felt impelled to say, then suddenly rose and left the table.

At this time he had reduced his dose of the drug to eight drops twice a
day. With a grim courage he resolved to make it five all at once. He
did so, and held to it. Medallion was much with him in these days. One
morning in the spring he got up, went out in his garden, drew in the
fresh, sweet air with a great gulp, picked some lovely crab-apple
blossoms, and, with a strange glowing look in his eyes, came in to his
wife, put them into her hands, and kissed her. It was the anniversary of
their wedding-day. Then, without a word, he took from his pocket the
little phial that he had carried so long, rolled it for an instant in his
palm, felt its worn, discoloured cork musingly, and threw it out of the
window.

"Now, my dear," he whispered, "we will be happy again."

He held to his determination with a stern anxiety. He took a month's
vacation, and came back better. He was not so happy as he hoped to be;
yet he would not whisper to himself the reason why. He felt that
something had failed him somewhere.