“Ah! yes.  Well, I never was so startled in my life as by the appearance of Mrs. Wilkinson.  And the child is better?”

“When I came away this morning, I left her sleeping calmly and sweetly; and, what is more, the points of two teeth had made their way through the red and swollen gums.”

“All right, then.  But how is Mary?”

“Not very well, of course.  How could she be, after such a night of anxiety and alarm?  The fact is, Harry, I was to blame for having left her alone during the evening, knowing, as I did, that Ella was not very well.”

Ellis shrugged his shoulders, as he replied—­“Not much excuse for you, I must admit.  I only wish the attraction at my home was as strong as it is at yours:  Parker’s would not see me often.  As for you, my old friend, if I speak what I think, I must say that your inclination to go out in the evening needs correcting.  I spend most of my evenings from home, because home is made unpleasant; you leave your wife, because a love of conviviality and gay company entices you away.  Such company I know to be dangerous, and especially so for you.  There now, as a friend, I have talked out plainly.  What do you think of it?  Ain’t I right?”

“I don’t know,” replied Wilkinson, musingly.  “Perhaps you are.  I have thought as much, sometimes, myself.”

“I know I’m right,” said Ellis, positively.  “So take a friend’s advice, and never go out after sundown, except in company with your wife.”

There was a change from gravity to mock seriousness in the voice of Ellis as he closed this sentence.  Wilkinson compressed his lips and shook his head.

“Can’t always be tied to my wife’s apron-string.  Oh, no! haven’t come to that.”

“With such a wife, and your temperament, it is the best place for you,” said Ellis, laughing.

“May be it is; but, for all that, I like good company too well to spend all my time with her.”

“Isn’t she good company?”

“Oh, yes; but, then, variety is the very spice of life, you know.”

“True enough.  Well, we’ll not quarrel about the matter.  Come! let’s go and take a drink; I’m as dry as a fish.”

“I don’t care if I do,” was the instinctive reply of Wilkinson, who took up his hat as he spoke.

The two men left the store, and were, a little while after, taking a lunch at a public house, and chatting over their brandy and water.

At the usual dinner hour, Wilkinson returned home.  He did not fully understand the expression of his wife’s face, as she looked at him on his entrance:  it was a look of anxious inquiry.  She sat with Ella upon her lap:  the child was sleeping.

“How is our little pet?” he asked, as he bent over, first kissing his wife, and then touching his lips lightly to the babe’s forehead.

“She’s been in a heavy sleep for most of the time since morning,” replied Mrs. Wilkinson, turning her face aside, so that her husband could not see its changed expression.