“Oh, Millie,” cried the loving, anxious wife, “I fear he is not well at all; and no wonder, when we think of the long strain he has been under.  Haven’t you noticed that his appetite is very poor? to-night he scarcely ate a mouthful.  He has just been trying to keep up ever since he came, and this afternoon he made unusual effort; reaction of course followed, and at last he was so weary and troubled that he could not hide his feelings from us.”

“I suppose you take the right view,” said Mildred hesitatingly, “but papa has not seemed the same this afternoon as at other times when tired and worried.  His gayety was a little extravagant, and so it might naturally be if it were forced.  But I can’t understand his speaking to young Mr. Atwood as he did.  Papa never showed such a lack of tact or delicacy before.  I would not dare tell him things if he spoke of them afterward so inopportunely.  I felt as if I could sink into the ground.  And when Belle—­who can’t help seeing everything in a ridiculous light—­began to laugh he turned and spoke to her as he has never spoken to any of us before, And yet he did not seem angry, but his gravity was more oppressive than any amount of natural anger.”

“Well, Millie, your father is very kind-hearted, and, like all Southern men, very sensitive to kindness and courtesy.  I suppose he thought that you and Belle had not treated Roger well, and that he ought to make amends.  The real explanation is that he is overstrained and unhappy, and so cannot act like himself.”

“I do hope he is not going to be ill,” faltered Mildred.  “Such a strange lethargy came over him after you left us.  Oh, the day is ending horribly, and it leaves a weight of foreboding on my mind.  I wish we could get away tomorrow, for I feel that Roger Atwood is watching us, and that nothing escapes him.  I know that papa’s manner seemed strange to him as well as to us, and I almost hate him for his obtrusive and prying interest.  Why can’t he see that he’s nothing to us, nor we to him, and let us alone?”

She often recalled these words in after years.

The wife went to her room and found that her husband was sleeping quietly.  Returning, she said, more cheerily, “I think papa will be like himself after a good night’s sleep, and there’s every promise now that he’ll get it; so don’t look on the dark side, Millie, nor worry about that young man.  He don’t mean to be obtrusive, and I must say that I think he behaves very well considering.  With troubles like ours, why think of such a transient annoyance?  If I only knew just how I could help your father I would not think about much else.”

It would have been well indeed if she could have known, for she would have taken from his pocketbook a small syringe and a bottle of Magendie’s solution of morphia; she would have entreated him upon her knees, she would have bound him by the strongest oaths to die rather than to use it again.  The secret of all that was peculiar and unnatural in his conduct can be explained by the fact that early in the afternoon he went apart for a moment, and with a little innocent-looking instrument injected into his arm the amount of the fatal drug which he believed he could enjoy without betraying himself.