Wilkinson stopped suddenly as this thought flashed over his mind.  He was soberer by far than when he left the house of Mr. Elbridge.

“I’ll go home at once.”  He turned and began quickly retracing his steps.  And now he remembered the moving shadow on the wall, as he stood, nearly three hours before, in front of his house, debating with himself whether to enter or no.  He heard too, in imagination, the plaintive cries of his sick child, and the soothing melody of its mother’s voice as she sought to hush into sleep its unquiet spirit.

CHAPTER II.

Wilkinson was nearly in front of his own door, when he was thus familiarly accosted by a man named Ellis, who came leisurely walking along with a lighted cigar in his mouth.

“Hallo! is this you, Wilkinson?  What in the name of wonder are you doing out at such an hour?”

“And suppose I were to ask you the same question?” inquired Wilkinson, as he took the hand of the other, who was an old acquaintance.

“It would be easily answered,” was the unhesitating reply of Ellis, who had been drinking rather freely.

“Well, suppose I have the benefit of your answer.”

“You’re quite welcome.  I keep no secrets from an old friend, you see.  Can’t you guess?”

“I’m not good at guessing.”

“Had a little tiff with Cara,” said Ellis in a half whisper, as he bent to the ear of his companion.

“Oh, no!” returned Wilkinson.

“Fact.  Cara’s a dear, good soul, as you know; but she’s a self-willed little jade, and if I don’t do just as she wants me to—­if I don’t walk her chalk line—­presto! she goes off like a rocket.  To-night, d’ye see, I came home with the first volume of Prescott’s new work on Mexico—­a perfect romance of a book, and wanted to read it aloud to Cara.  But no, she had something else in her head, and told me, up and down, that she didn’t want to hear any of my dull old histories.  I got mad, of course; I always get mad when she comes athwart my hawes in this way.

“‘Dull old histories!’ said I, indignantly.  ’There’s more true life and real interest in this book than in all the Wandering Jews or Laura Matilda novels that ever were written; and I wish you’d throw such miserable trash into the fire, and read books from which to get some intelligence and strength of mind.’  Whew!  The way she combed my hair for me at this was curious.  I am a philosopher, and on these occasions generally repeat to myself the wise saw—­

  ’He that fights and runs away,
  May live to fight another day.’

So, deeming discretion the better part of valour, I retreated in disorder.”

“That’s bad,” remarked Wilkinson, who knew something of the character of his friend’s wife.

“I know it’s bad; but, then, I can’t help myself.  Cara has such a queer temper, I never know how to take her.”