“It is my ’usband, sir,” said Mrs. Hesketh. “It’s Alfred. He’s been off his food and off his sleep for I don’t know how long, and I’m not happy about him. I thought perhaps you might give him a something that would put him all straight.” “Off his food and off his sleep? Perhaps he hasn’t been off his drink also?” said the doctor, giving a touch to the shade of the lamp. “I knew,” said the young man, in the same partially hoarse voice, “as that is what would be said.” “And a gentleman like you ought to know better,” said the indignant wife. “Drink is what he never touches, if it isn’t a ’alf pint to his supper, and that only to please me.” “Then it’s something else, and not drink,” said the doctor. “Sit down, and let me have a look at you.” He took into his cool grasp a somewhat tremulous damp hand, which had been hanging down by the patient’s side, limp yet agitated, like a thing he had no use for. “Tell me something about him,” said Dr. Roland. “In a shop? Baxter’s?--yes, I know the place. What you call shopman,--no, assistant,--young gentleman at the counter?” “Oh, no,” said Mrs. Hesketh, with pride; “book-keeper, sir--sits up in his desk in the middle of the costume department, and----” “Ah, I see,” said the doctor quickly. He gave the limp wrist, in which the pulse had suddenly given a great jump, a grip with his cool hand. “Control yourself,” he said quietly. “Nerves all in a whirl, system breaking down--can you take a holiday?” “Oh, yes,” said the young man in a sort of bravado, “of course I can take a holiday! and an express ticket for the workhouse after it. How are we to live if I go taking holidays? We can’t afford no holidays,” he said in his gruff voice. “There are worse places than the workhouse,” said the doctor, with meaning. “Take this, and to-morrow I’ll give you a note to send to your master. The first thing you want is a good night’s sleep.” “Oh, that is the truth, however you know it,” cried Mrs. Hesketh. “He hasn’t had a night’s sleep, nor me neither, not for a month back.” “I’ll see that he has one to-night,” said Dr. Roland, drawing back the curtain of his surgery and opening the folding-doors. “I won’t take no opiates, doctor,” said the young man, with dumb defiance in his sleepy eyes. “You won’t take any opiates? And why, if I may ask?” the doctor said, selecting a bottle from the shelf. “Not a drop of your nasty sleepy stuff, that makes fellows dream and talk nonsense in their sleep--oh, not for me!” “You are afraid, then, of talking nonsense in your sleep? We must get rid of the nonsense, not of the sleep,” said the doctor. “I don’t say that this is an opiate, but you have got to swallow it, my fine fellow, whether or not.” “No,” said the young man, setting his lips firmly together. “Drink!” cried Dr. Roland, fully roused. “Come, I’ll have no childish, wry faces. Why, you’re a man--with a wife--and not a naughty boy!” “It’s not my doing coming here. She brought me, and I’ll see her far enough----”