holy folk to give you compared with the comfort of a good
dinner? Could they make you dream, and see life rosy for a little? No,
they could only give you promissory notes which never would be cashed. A
man had nothing but his pluck--they only tried to undermine it, and make
him squeal for help. He could see his precious doctor throwing up his
hands: "Port after a bottle of champagne--you'll die of it!" And a very
good death too--none better. A sound broke the silence of the closed-up
room. Music? His daughter playing the piano overhead. Singing too! What
a trickle of a voice! Jenny Lind! The Swedish nightingale--he had never
missed the nights when she was singing--Jenny Lind!

"It's very hot, sir. Shall I take it out of the case?"

Ah! The ramequin!

"Touch of butter, and the cayenne!"

"Yes, sir."

He ate it slowly, savouring each mouthful; had never tasted a better.
With cheese--port! He drank one glass, and said:

"Help me to my chair."

And settled there before the fire with decanter and glass and hand-bell
on the little low table by his side, he murmured:

"Bring coffee, and my cigar, in twenty minutes."

To-night he would do justice to his wine, not smoking till he had
finished. As old Horace said:

"Aequam memento rebus in arduis Servare mentem."

And, raising his glass, he sipped slowly, spilling a drop or two,
shutting his eyes.

The faint silvery squealing of the holy woman in the room above, the
scent of hyacinths, the drowse of the fire, on which a cedar log had
just been laid, the feeling of the port soaking down into the crannies
of his being, made up a momentary Paradise. Then the music stopped; and
no sound rose but the tiny groans of the log trying to resist the fire.
Dreamily he thought: 'Life wears you out--wears you out. Logs on a
fire!' And he filled his glass again. That fellow had been careless;
there were dregs at the bottom of the decanter and he had got down to
them! Then, as the last drop from his tilted glass trickled into the
white hairs on his chin, he heard the coffee tray put down, and taking
his cigar he put it to his ear, rolling it in his thick fingers. In
prime condition! And drawing a first whiff, he said:

"Open that bottle of the old brandy in the sideboard."

"Brandy, sir? I really daren't, sir."

"Are you my servant or not?"

"Yes, sir, but---"

A minute of silence, then the man went hastily to the sideboard, took
out the bottle, and drew the cork. The tide