In the meantime, her husband had spent a merry evening at Harry Arnold’s, drinking with more than his accustomed freedom.  He was the last to go home, the thought of meeting his deceived and injured wife, causing him to linger.  When he did leave, it was past eleven o’clock.  Though more than half-intoxicated on going from the grog-shop, the cool night air, and the thought of Sally, sobered him considerably before he got home.  Arrived there, he paused with his hand on the door for some time, reluctant to enter.  At last he opened the door, and went quietly in, in the hope of getting up to bed without his wife’s discovering his condition.  The third step into the room brought his foot in contact with a chair, and over he went, jarring the whole house with his fall.  His wife heard this—­indeed her quick ear had detected the opening of the door—­and it caused her heart to sink like a heavy weight in her bosom.

Gathering himself up, Braddock moved forward again as steadily as he could, both hands extended before him.  A smart blow upon the nose from an open door, that had insinuated itself between his hands, brought him up again, and caused him, involuntarily, to dash aside the door which shut with a heavy slam.  Pausing now, to recall his bewildered senses, he resolved to move forward with more caution, and so succeeded in gaining the stairs, up which he went, his feet, softly as he tried to put them down, falling like heavy lumps of lead, and making the house echo again.  He felt strongly inclined to grumble about all the lights being put out, as he came into the chamber—­but a distinct consciousness that he had no right to grumble, kept him quiet, and so he undressed himself with as little noise as possible,—­which was no very small portion, for at almost every moment he stept on something, or ran against something that seemed endowed for the time with sonorous power of double the ordinary capacity,—­and crept softly into bed.

Mrs. Braddock said nothing, and he said nothing.  But long before her eyelids closed in sleep, he was loudly snoring by her side.  When he awoke in the morning, Sally had arisen and gone down.  A burning thirst caused him to get up immediately and dress himself.  There was no water in the room, and if there had been, he could not have touched it while there was to be had below a cool draught from the well.  So he descended at once, feeling very badly, and resolving over again that he would never touch another drop of liquor as long as he lived.  Having quenched his thirst with a large bowl of cool water drawn right from the bottom of the well, he went up to his wife where she was stooping at the fire, and said—­

“Sally, look here—­”

“Go ’way, Jim,” was her angry response.

“No, but Sally, look here, I want to talk to you,” persisted her husband.

“Go ’way, I say—­I don’t care if I never see you again!”

“So you’ve said a hundred times, but I never believed you, or I might have taken you at your word.”