out half the time. How on earth
any of your sex manage to live to be twenty years old is a mystery to
me. The average woman has no more sense than a rag baby."

"I haven't been careless," she replied.

"I know better! Of course you have! If you hadn't been you wouldn't be
where you are. Grip be hanged! Well, it's only right that you should
suffer for it. Call it what you wish, but don't expect any sympathy from
me. While I use every precaution to preserve my health, you go sloshing
around in your bare feet, or sit on a cake of ice to read a dime novel,
or do some other tomfool thing to flatten you out. I refuse to
sympathize with you, Mrs. Bowser--absolutely and teetotally refuse to
utter one word of pity."

Mrs. Bowser had nothing to say in reply. Mr. Bowser ate his dinner
alone, took advantage of the occasion to drive a few nails and make a
great noise, and by and by went off to his club and was gone until
midnight. Next morning Mrs. Bowser felt a bit better and made a heroic
attempt to be about until he started for the office.

The only reference he made to her illness was to say:

"If you live to be three hundred years old, you may possibly learn
something about the laws of health and be able to keep out of bed three
days in a week."

Mrs. Bowser was all right at the end of three or four days, and nothing
more was said. Then one afternoon at three o'clock a carriage drove up
and a stranger assisted Mr. Bowser into the house. He was looking pale
and ghastly, and his chin quivered, and his knees wabbled.

"What is it, Mr. Bowser?" she exclaimed, as she met him at the door.

"Bed--doctor--death!" he gasped in reply.

Mrs. Bowser got him to bed and examined him for bullet holes or knife
wounds. There were none. He had no broken limbs. He hadn't fallen off a
horse or been half drowned. When she had satisfied herself on these
points, she asked:

"How were you taken?"

"W-with a c-chill!" he gasped--"with a c-chill and a b-backache!"

"I thought so. Mr. Bowser, you have the grip--a second attack. As I have
some medicine left, there's no need to send for the doctor. I'll have
you all right in a day or two."

"Get the doctor at once," wailed Mr. Bowser, "or I'm a dead man! Such a
backache! So cold! Mrs. Bowser, if I should d-die, I hope--"

Emotion overcame Mr. Bowser, and he could say no more. The doctor came
and pronounced it a second attack of the grip, but a very mild one. When
he had departed, Mrs. Bows