and limp that he even dreaded the effort required to return to the house where his family was waiting for him.  But the physical oppression was nothing to that which weighed upon his mind.  The sense of misery and discouragement was paralyzing, and he was fairly appalled by his lack of energy.  And yet he felt his need of power and resolution as keenly as he realized his feebleness.  He knew that he had appeared unnatural to his wife and children, and that while they now ascribed his behavior to the long strain he had been under, their loving and charitable blindness could not last if he often exhibited before them such variable moods and conditions.  Therefore he felt that he must overcome the habit before they were together permanently, for to permit them to discover his vile weakness in this time of their great need would be a mortal wound to his pride.  All his manhood revolted at the bare thought.  Their trust, their love, their dependence and unrepining courage in meeting poverty and privation with him imposed the strongest and most sacred of obligations, and his high sense of honor—­which hitherto had been his religion—­made failure to meet these obligations the most awful disaster that could overwhelm him.  The means of escaping from his wretchedness and dejection—­from the horrible lassitude of body and soul—­could be grasped in a moment, and the temptation to use them and become within a few minutes a strong, sanguine, courageous man was almost irresistible; but he knew well that such an abrupt change from the heavy, dull-eyed condition in which they had seen him at the breakfast table could not fail to arouse suspicion; and should they once discern his crime—­for crime he now regarded it—­he feared his self-respect would be so destroyed that he would never have the pride and strength for the struggle now clearly foreseen; therefore, with the instinct of self-preservation, and from the impulse of all his native and long-fostered Southern pride, he resolved that they must never know his degradation.  He must rally his shattered forces, spend the few hours before his departure with his family in a way to lull all fears and surmises; then when away by himself he would tug at his chain until he broke it.  Summoning the whole strength of his will he returned to the house, and succeeded fairly well.

Could he break his chain?  The coming pages of this book will reveal his struggle and its termination.  Alas! it is no fancy sketch, but a record of human experience that is becoming sadly frequent.  The hunger for opium had grown upon Mr. Jocelyn by its almost constant use for nearly two years.  During weeks of pain he had almost lived upon the drug, saturating his system with it.  It had come to him like an angel of light, lifting him on buoyant pinions out of suffering and despondency, but the light was fading from the wings and brow of this strong spirit, and it was already seen to be an angel of darkness.