“A husband and his love,” said Marrion, emphatically. “Would you say you had a wife and that wife’s love, if half the time she was in no condition to care for your home?” “That is not a parallel case. Drinking in a man is not so bad, it is a popular evil; more men drink than sin in any other way.” “And all the other sins follow in its train.” “You know, Latham, I am moral in the main. I need a stimulant; it is something a brain worker must have. Besides----” “Besides what?” “I am not happy since I became so ambitious,” said Robert, gloomily, and, continuing--“I cannot stand the bitterness of self-reproach. When reason is wide awake, remorse fastens its fangs upon it. I--” His head fell heavily upon the table, and he lay there in silent suffering. “It is your yielding to temptation, more than your ambition, that hurts a refined nature like yours; but as long as you can feel sorrow you are not wholly bad.” “I don’t know, Marrion, for brooding over this unfortunate habit I have all unconsciously drifted into, sometimes drives me almost mad; it is then that the tempter gets in his work. Something tells me there is but one way to get swift relief--drink and forget.” “But what of the wife? Does it speak to you of the wearing ache of her waking--of the lonely hours of her watching alone, while your conscience rests in soothing sleep?” “Yes, I think of her love, her patience, but the best of us have our faults, and a woman should not demand from the busy, anxious spirit of man all that romance promises and life but rarely yields.” “You have been blessed with one who demands nothing; she suffers in silence. Her very gentleness, her patient womanliness should win you to right. But, my friend, she pines for your attention--those little things that would tell her she was appreciated. She is like a tendril, accustomed to cling, which must have something to twine around, and make wholly its own.” “I never give her a cross word; I leave her to do as it best pleases her.” “There, that is the mistake. The secret of the danger lies in that one act of yours. How many have I known, lovely and pure like your wife, who have suffered their unguarded affections--the very beauty of their nature--to destroy them.” “That is true; I have known many such cases,” admitted Robert. “Then, in the name of God, pull yourself together, man; brace up, I will help you all I can.” Robert raised his head: “Marrion, I have never esteemed you half so much as I do now; your interest is unselfish and sincere, I know that.” “It is, Milburn, and I am glad you take it as I meant it. It has been said, the loves and friendships of life are its sweetest resources. All else--special achievements, creative genius in any form of manifestation--ministers to them. To live in an atmosphere of sympathy is to live in an atmosphere of heaven, and often it is true that a man must hold his friends unjudged, accepted, trusted to the end.”