e this terrible temptation of morphia. But to
one, only so lately cured ... to whom severe pain comes...."

He hesitated again, and Sophy said in a hard, clear voice:

"Do you mean that my husband is taking morphia again?"

"I fear so, signora," said Camenis very gently.

Sophy sat looking down at her hand which she clenched and unclenched as
it lay on her knee.

"Yes--I think it's very likely," she said at last, still in that hard,
resonant voice.

Camenis was silent for a time; then he said:

"I think your husband has suffered much for what he did the other day,
signora."

Sophy's face flamed. Her eyes glittered.

"Don't speak of it ... don't speak of it...!" she cried, as though
suffocating.

Again Camenis waited.

"Forgive me, signora," he then said, "but I must tell you that I think
this is a crisis for your husband as well as for your son."

Sophy turned suddenly and hid her face against the back of her chair.

The tired, kind eyes of Camenis looked at the bent head compassionately.
After another pause, he said:

"I think--as a physician--if you could go to him--gently--he would
confess and try once more to--to be what you would have him be,
signora."

Then Sophy broke down and wept like a desperate child.

"I can't! Oh, I can't!" she sobbed. "You don't know.... I can't bear
even the memory of his face--his voice! How am I to go to him? I can't!
I can't!"

The little doctor's face looked very worn as he sat watching her, while
she clung to the big, ugly chair as to a rock of refuge, clutching it
with her white hands that had grown thin in this one week of Bobby's
illness--staining its gay chintz cover with her tears. Suddenly he rose,
and went over to her.

"_Bambina_ ... _bambina_ ..." he said tenderly, "when you have saved
him, you will love him. We always love what we have saved."

He just touched her hair softly, once, as a father would have done.

"_Coraggio_ ..." he murmured, in his kind, faded voice. Then he left
her.

Chesney was filling his hypodermic syringe that evening, about seven,
when there came a low knock at his door. He started, nearly dropping the
little instrument.

"Who's there?" he called sharply. In every nerve he felt the need of
this dose that he was preparing--so soon does the tyrant morphia assert
its sway. He was transfixed to hear Sophy's voice reply:

"It's I, Cecil."

Hurriedly, his hands shaking as with ague, he bundled everything into a
drawer, and