“We shall have to reduce your salary Mr. Bancroft,” said the president, to him, some weeks after the company had received the shock just mentioned.  “The directors think that five hundred dollars is as large a salary as they now ought to pay.  I am sorry that the necessity for reduction exists, but it is absolute.  Of course we don’t expect you to remain at the diminished compensation.  But we will be obliged to you, if you will give us as much notice as possible.”

With a heavy heart did Mr. Bancroft return to the home that seemed so desolate, when the duties of the day were done.  He tried, at tea-time, to eat his food as usual, and to conceal from his wife the trouble that was oppressing him.  But this was a vain effort.  Her eyes seemed never a moment from his face.

“What is the matter, dear?” she asked, as soon as they had left the table.  “Are you not well?”

“No; I am sick,” he replied, sadly.

“Sick?” ejaculated the wife, in alarm.

“Yes, sick at heart.”

Mrs. Bancroft sighed deeply.

“My cup is not yet full, Mary,” he said, in a bitter tone.  “There is yet more gall and wormwood to be added.  We must go back to the two rooms, and live as we began some sixteen or seventeen years ago.  My salary, from this day, is to be only five hundred dollars.  It is useless to try for a better place—­all is ill-luck now.  We must go down, down, down!”

Mrs. Bancroft wept bitterly, but did not reply.

Back to the two rooms they went, but oh! how sad and weary-hearted they were.  It was not with them as when with the first dear pledge of their love, they drew close together in the small bounds of a chamber and parlor, and were happy.  Why could they not be happy now?  They still had three children, and an income equal to their necessities, if dispensed with prudent care.  They were relieved from a world of labor and anxiety.  No—­no—­they could not be happy.  Their hearts were larger now, for they had been expanding for years, as objects of love came one after the other in quick succession; but these objects of love, with two or three solitary exceptions, had been taken away from them, and there was silence, vacancy, and desolation in their bosoms.

“My cup is not yet full, Mary.”  No, it seemed that it was not yet full, for a few days only had elapsed, after the family had contracted itself to meet the diminished income, before little Harry began to droop about.  Mr. Bancroft noticed this, but he was afraid to speak of it, lest the very expression of his fear should produce the evil dreaded.  He came and went to and from his daily tasks with an oppressive weight ever at his heart.  He looked for evil and only evil; but without the bravery to meet it and bear it like a man.

One night, after having, before retiring to bed, bent long in anxious solicitude over the child for whom all his fears was aroused, he was awakened by a cry of anguish from his wife.  He started up in alarm, and sprung upon the floor, exclaiming: