Flinging himself upon his humble bed, the youth gave himself up to dismal thoughts, the tenor of which was that he wished he was dead. His money was all gone, nothing left of all he had possessed but his books; remunerative employment he found impossible to procure, and he knew not how to gain the means of livelihood. He could not apply to his friends; indeed, he would not have them know his situation for the world, and nothing remained but to put himself out of the way as soon as possible. In vain did I strive to turn his thoughts in another direction; in vain I pictured to his mind the horror and anguish of his friends, when they should learn what he had done. He was in no condition to be impressed by any influence that I could bring to bear upon him. Again he started up and left the house, I still accompanying him. He entered a small drug-store upon the corner, and, nodding nonchalantly to a young lad about his own age behind the counter, said: “Ned, I wish you’d trust me for a few pennies’ worth of arsenic; the rats are becoming such a bore up in my attic that I must do something, especially as the landlady pays no attention to my complaints.” “All right,” responded the clerk, taking a bottle of white powder from the shelf, and proceeding to do up a small package from its contents. “But you must be very careful of it. I suppose you know how to use it?” “Yes, thanks; I’ll settle as soon as I can,” replied the youth, and, taking the parcel, he hurried from the shop. I knew not what to do. I did not like to see that youth throw himself away in the manner he thought of doing; but how could I prevent it? In a moment more, a doctor’s chaise drove up to the druggist’s door, and a portly, good-natured looking gentleman, of about five-and-forty years of age, alighted and entered the shop. “Ned,” said he, “prepare a bottle of cough-mixture from this recipe,” handing him the prescription, “and send it with a box of soothing powders to Mrs. Simms. She’s very bad.” “All right, sir,” replied the clerk; “but look here a minute. Harold H., who lives at No. 8, was here a minute ago for arsenic. He said it was to kill rats. I let him have it, but some how or other just now I feel nervous about it.” Upon the doctor’s entrance, I saw in an instant he was the one to be influenced in the right direction, and it was I who had produced the uneasiness in the clerk’s mind, and impressed him to speak. “Ah,” said the doctor, “I’ll stop and see about this; and do you, Master Ned, have a care how you sell poisonous articles to whoever comes for them.” He hurried from the store over to No. 8, entered, and without ceremony passed up to the attic of the wouldbe suicide. I of course followed. We found the youth engaged in writing a letter, the package of poison close to his hand.