Yes, it had come to this—Cleve Stuart was absolutely penniless. He had paid out his last dime on the horse cars that brought himself and his wife from the wedding breakfast. This was Saturday, the second of December. On Monday, the fourth, their month’s rent would be due, and there was not a penny to meet it. What should he do? If all his remaining earthly possessions were pawned they would not bring money enough to meet the demand of their landlord. Nor could he hope for any forbearance from that quarter. The terms of the contract were strict, and amounted, in brief, to this: “Pay or go.” Nor could he bring himself to the shame, not to say the dishonesty, of trying to borrow money which he could foresee no way of paying. This was the pass to which his marriage with Palma had brought him! Did he regret his marriage? “No,” he said to himself, “though I proposed to her, first of all, under the diabolical influence of the beautiful fiend who had me in her power, and for mercenary purposes that were to serve us, the two conspirators, yet for one redeeming event I do thank Providence—and that is that I discovered Palma to be penniless as well as invalided before I married her. Then I kept faith with her; I married her; I saved her precious life, and I have grown to know her and to love her above all things on earth. And to whatever straits I may be reduced, and however much I may suffer, I will, so far as possible, shield my beloved one from knowing them or sharing them. But in the meantime what in the name of Heaven am I to do? And what is to become of her? Men in such straits as mine have been driven, are daily driven, to commit suicide. We read such cases in almost every paper, and often with the concluding comment: ‘No motive could be discovered for the desperate deed.’ I suppose, now, if I were to be so lost to a sense of justice as to end my trouble with a shot to-night, it would be said to-morrow: ‘He had just come from a wedding breakfast, where he appeared among the happiest of the guests. No motive can be surmised for his desperate deed.’ As if men paraded their perplexities to all and sundry, in season and out of season, and wore their motives and intentions pinned on their sleeves—especially such motives and intentions. Pah! nothing could drive me to such a deed. I must live and brave my fate, trusting in Heaven, doing my duty! But all the same, sweet little Palma, if it were Heaven’s will, I think it would be well if you and I should fall asleep to-night and never awake again in this world!” So deep, so painful, so absorbing was his reverie that he did not perceive the approach of the postman, who ran against him in the dark, begged his pardon and passed on until he reached the main entrance of the apartment house, went in, came out, and hurried on again out of sight up the street.