John turned pale and leaned against the gate for support.  Celia’s face became a mere blur before his eyes.  What had he done—­what had he done?  For, at that moment, the conviction came with terrible force upon him that he, and he alone, would be responsible for Squire Shirley’s death.

He might blame the poor light—­Doctor Pratt’s miserable scrawl; but these were but cowardly subterfuges.  John knew that he had been able to decipher Doctor Pratt’s handwriting well enough, but that he had been thinking of something else while putting up the powders, and so had put too much opium into them.

Celia looked at his agitated face in wonder.  Then she uttered a little cry.

“You—­you did it!  It is your fault,” she said.  “And he was your friend, and always spoke so well of you.”

Then she turned and walked swiftly toward the house.

It was true he and Squire Shirley had become excellent friends that winter, and the squire had only a few days before asked him if he thought he should like law better than the drug business.

He expected a vacancy in his office soon; in the meantime he had offered to read a little law with John in the evenings.  John had been more than pleased, for circumstances had placed him in the drug store, not his own inclinations.

And now he had blotted out all his hopes for the future, and perhaps killed his friend and benefactor at the same time, all because he had lacked manliness enough to cure himself of his small and odious besetting sin.

John wandered like one distraught through the freezing slush and mud of the country roads that night, feeling no fatigue and no discomfort.  His brain was on fire with horror and self-condemnation.

It never occurred to him to ask himself how the law would look upon his carelessness; he only knew that he was ruined and disgraced, and that he had brought a crushing sorrow upon those who had trusted him and treated him as a good and welcome friend.

When daylight dawned upon John Hampden’s haggard eyes he found himself upon his own doorstep, his clothes smeared with frozen mud, his body shivering and quaking in the grip of a dreadful chill.

He had walked for hours at a breakneck pace, and he was so exhausted that he could hardly lift his hand to fumble at the door-knob.

His aunt opened the door for him.  Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying.  She had been kneeling by a chair in the corner of the kitchen.

“John, John!” she cried, opening her arms wide.

“Don’t touch me!” said John, in a hoarse voice.  “You don’t know what I am—­what I have done, Aunt Martha.”

“I know it all, John,” said Aunt Martha, the tears gushing from her pitying eyes.  “How you must have suffered, my dear, dear boy!  The squire’s daughter and niece were here at three o’clock this morning.  They thought you might be worried a good deal about it.  The squire will be all right in a few days.”