g and slovenly, had become alert and self-reliant.

"A man who can do that, doctor, can do great things."

A shadow fell on his face. The look of keen intelligence became
clouded. His very frame lost its erect poise, and seemed to fall
together. His professional air of jaunty cheerfulness forsook him. He
huddled himself down into his chair, put his face in his hands, and
shuddered.

"My dear sir," he said, lifting up his face, "it is quite useless,
quite hopeless."

"No," said Shock eagerly, "do not say that. Surely the Almighty God--"

The doctor put up his hand.

"I know all you would say. How often have I heard it! The fault is not
with the Almighty, but with myself. I am still honest with myself, and
yet--" Here he paused for some moments. "I have tried--and I have
failed. I am a wreck. I have prayed--prayed with tears and groans. I
have done my best. But I am beyond help."

For a full minute Shock stood, gazing sadly at the noble head, the face
so marred, the huddling form. He knew something of the agony of
remorse, humiliation, fear, and despair that the man was suffering.

"Dr. Burton," said Shock, with the air of a man who has formed a
purpose, "you are not telling the truth, sir."

The doctor looked up with a flash of indignation in his eyes.

"You are misrepresenting facts in two important particulars. You have
just said that you have done your best, and that you are beyond all
help. The simple truth is you have neither done your best, nor are you
beyond help."

"Beyond help!" cried the doctor, starting up and beginning to pace the
floor, casting aside his usual gentle manner. "You use plain speech,
sir, but your evident sincerity forbids resentment. If you knew my
history you would agree with me that I state the simple truth when I
declare that I am beyond help. You see before you, sir, the sometime
President of the Faculty of Guy's, London, a man with a reputation
second to none in the Metropolis. But neither reputation, nor fortune,
nor friends could avail to save me from this curse. I came to this
country in desperation. It was a prohibition country. Cursed be those
who perpetrated that fraud upon the British public! If London be bad,
this country, with its isolation, its monotony of life, and this
damnable permit system, is a thousand times worse. God pity the fool
who leaves England in the hope of recovering his manhood and freedom
here. I came to this God-forsaken, homeless country with som