suddenly, every
now and then, and walks quickly across the room, as if in search of
something. Then sits down, listlessly--sighs--stretches himself, and
says, "Oh dear!" What shall she do for him? How is the want of his
accustomed evening stimulus to be met? She thinks, and questions, and
grieves inwardly. Poor Joe Morgan! His wife understands his case, and
pities him from her heart. But what can she do? Go out and get him
something to drink? "Oh, no! no! no! never!" She answered the thought
audibly almost, in the excitement of her feelings. An hour has
passed--Joe's restlessness has increased instead of diminishing. What
is to be done? Now Mrs. Morgan has left the room. She has resolved upon
something, for the case must be met. Ah! here she comes, after an
absence of five minutes, bearing in her hand a cup of strong coffee.

"It was kind and thoughtful in you, Fanny," says Morgan, as with a
gratified look he takes the cup. But his hand trembles, and he spills a
portion of the contents as ho tries to raise it to his lips. How
dreadfully his nerves are shattered! Unnatural stimulants have been
applied so long, that all true vitality seems lost. And now the hand of
his wife is holding the cup to his lips, and he drinks eagerly.

"This is dreadful--dreadful! Where will it end? What is to be done?"

Fanny suppresses a sob, as she thus gives vent to her troubled
feelings. Twice, already, has her husband been seized with the
drunkard's madness; and, in the nervous prostration consequent upon
even a brief withdrawal of his usual strong stimulants, she sees the
fearful precursor of another attack of this dreadful and dangerous
malady. In the hope of supplying the needed tone she has given him
strong coffee; and this for the time, produces the effect desired. The
restlessness is allayed, and a quiet state of body and mind succeeds.
It needs but a suggestion to induce him to retire for the night. After
being a few minutes in bed, sleep steals over him, and his heavy
breathing tells that he is in the world of dreams.

And now there comes a tap at the door.

"Come in," is answered.

The latch is lifted, the door swings open, and a woman enters.

"Mrs. Slade!" The name is uttered in a tone of surprise.

"Fanny, how are you this evening?" Kindly, yet half sadly, the words
are said.

"Tolerable, I thank you."

The hands of the two women are clasped, and for a few moments they gaze
into each other's face. What a world of t