“Yet true as that the sun shines.  And she has had her reward!”

This last sentence was uttered in a tone of self-satisfaction that deeply pained Mr. Wilkinson.

“I saw your wife this morning,” he remarked, after a moment’s silence.

“You did!  Where?”

“I passed her in the street; and the sight of her made my heart ache.  Ah, my friend! if you have been wronged, deeply is the wrong repaid!  Such a wreck!  I could scarcely believe my eyes.  Ellis!  I read at a single glance her countenance, marred by long suffering, and found in it only the sad evidences of patient endurance.  She is changed.  I am bold to say that.  If she erred, she has repented.”

“But not atoned for a wrong that is irreparable,” said Ellis in a dogged tone, while his heavy brows contracted.

“Ah! how changed you are, Ellis:  once so kind-hearted, so forgiving and forbearing!”

“And what changed me?  Answer me that, John Wilkinson!  Yes, I am changed—­changed from a man into—­into—­yes, let me say the word—­into a devil!  And who held the enchanter’s wand?  Who?  The wife of my bosom!”

Wilkinson felt a shudder creeping along his nerves as he looked at the excited man, and heard his words.

“Cara never acts toward you, now, other than with kindness,” said he.

But Ellis made no answer to this.

“Let the past suffice, my friend,” added Wilkinson.  “Both have suffered enough.  Resolve, in the strength of God and your own manhood, to rise out of the horrible pit and miry clay into which you have fallen.”

“That is impossible.  So we won’t talk about it,” said Ellis, impatiently.  “Lend me half a dollar, won’t you?”

The hand of Wilkinson went instinctively to his pocket.  But he withdrew it, without the coin he had designed, from the moment’s impulse, to give.  Shaking his head, he replied to the application,

“I can’t give you money, Ellis.”

“You can’t?”

“No; for that would be no real kindness.  But, if you will reform your life; if you will abandon drink, and become a sober, industrious man, I will pledge myself to procure you a good situation as clerk.  In a few years you may regain all that has been lost.”

“Bah!” muttered Ellis, grinding his teeth as he spoke.  “All good talk!” and, turning away, he passed from the store of his old friend.  Without a cent in his pocket, and burning with a desire for drink, he had conquered all reluctance and shame, and applied, as we have seen, to an old friend, for money.  Two or three other ineffectual attempts were made to get small sums, but they proved fruitless.  For some time he wandered about the streets; then he entered one of the lower class of taverns, and boldly called for a glass of liquor.  But the keeper of this den, grown suspicious by experience, saw in the face or manner of Ellis that he had no money, and coolly demanded pay before setting forth his bottle.  It was just at this untimely crisis that Henry came in, and, taking hold of his father’s arm, urged him to come home.  The cruel rebuff he received is known.