But he would deceive himself with no lying pledges.  He hoped—­he longed to be strong; but he could not swear that he would be—­he did not know whether he would be or not.  The temptation was not upon him now—­he loathed the very thought of it now; but the temptation would most certainly return sooner or later.  He hoped from the bottom of his soul that he would resist it, but he feared—­nay, in his secret heart he believed—­that he would yield.  And because he believed it he loathed himself.

As he drew near the office he thought of Mr. Graham,—­how kind he was—­how trustful.  He wondered if Mr. Graham knew the cause of his illnesses and if not how long it would before he would know it; and if the attacks were repeated how long he would be able to hold the place that had shown him the end of the rainbow?  How bitter it would be to some day find, added to all the other disastrous results of his weakness of will—­to find another in the editorial chair of Graham’s.

Just at this point in his soliliquy he reached his destination.  He mounted the steps leading to the office of Graham’s Magazine and opened the door—­quietly.

For a moment the two men in the office—­each deep in his own work—­were unaware of his presence, and he stood staring upon their backs as they sat at their desks.  Mr. Graham was in his accustomed seat and in his—­The Dreamer’s—­the giant frame of the man whose big brain he admired—­though he was “no poet,”—­the frame of Rufus Griswold!

Horror clutched his heart.  Mr. Graham evidently knew, and knowing had supplied his place without deeming him worth the trouble of notifying, even.  Had supplied it, moreover, with the one man who he himself believed would fill it with credit.  The readers would be satisfied.  He would not be missed.  He turned and stumbled blindly down the stairs.  Mr. Graham heard him, and hurrying to the door, recognized and followed him—­trying to explain and to persuade him to return.  But he was too much excited to listen.  His reason prompted him to listen, but the Imp of the Perverse laughed reason to scorn.  Seeing disaster ahead he rushed headlong to embrace it.

He understood—­he understood, he reiterated.  There was nothing to explain.  Mr. Graham had secured Dr. Griswold’s services.  Mr. Graham had done well.  No, not for any inducement would he consider returning.

He was gone!  He was in the street—­a wanderer!  A beggar, he told himself!

* * * * *

He wandered aimlessly about for an hour, then foot-sore—­exhausted in mind and body—­he turned his face wearily in the direction of Spring Garden, with its rose-embowered cottage sheltering exquisite beauty—­unalterable love—­unfailing forgiveness—­heartsease.  He must go home and tell “Muddie” and “Sissy” that he was a ruined man!  Oh, if they would only give him his desert for once!  If they would only punish him as he felt he should