ny water to it.

It seemed to do him good, for the colour began to come back to his face,
and he leaned upon his elbow.

"My engagement is off, Bob," he said, trying to speak calmly, but with a
tremor in his voice which he could not conceal. "It is all over."

"Cheer up!" I answered, trying to encourage him.

"Don't get down on your luck. How was it? What was it all about?"

"About?" he groaned, covering his face with his hands. "If I did
tell you, Bob, you would not believe it. It is too dreadful--too
horrible--unutterably awful and incredible! O Kate, Kate!" and he rocked
himself to and fro in his grief; "I pictured you an angel and I find you
a----"

"A what?" I asked, for he had paused.

He looked at me with a vacant stare, and then suddenly burst out, waving
his arms: "A fiend!" he cried. "A ghoul from the pit! A vampire soul
behind a lovely face! Now, God forgive me!" he went on in a lower tone,
turning his face to the wall; "I have said more than I should. I have
loved her too much to speak of her as she is. I love her too much now."

He lay still for some time, and I had hoped that the brandy had had the
effect of sending him to sleep, when he suddenly turned his face towards
me.

"Did you ever read of wehr-wolves?" he asked.

I answered that I had.

"There is a story," he said thoughtfully, "in one of Marryat's books,
about a beautiful woman who took the form of a wolf at night and
devoured her own children. I wonder what put that idea into Marryat's
head?"

He pondered for some minutes, and then he cried out for some more
brandy. There was a small bottle of laudanum upon the table, and I
managed, by insisting upon helping him myself, to mix about half a
drachm with the spirits. He drank it off, and sank his head once more
upon the pillow. "Anything better than that," he groaned. "Death is
better than that. Crime and cruelty; cruelty and crime. Anything is
better than that," and so on, with the monotonous refrain, until at last
the words became indistinct, his eyelids closed over his weary eyes, and
he sank into a profound slumber. I carried him into his bedroom without
arousing him; and making a couch for myself out of the chairs, I
remained by his side all night.

In the morning Barrington Cowles was in a high fever. For weeks he
lingered between life and death. The highest medical skill of Edinburgh
was called in, and his vigorous constitution slowly got the better of
his disease. I nursed h