"Oh, how horrible," said the doctor's wife, slipping her arm between his neck and the chair. "It seems," went on the doctor, "as well as I could gather, that some girl had discarded him to marry a more well-to-do man, and he lost hope and interest in life, and went to the dogs. No, he refused to tell her name. There was a great pride in that meningitis case. He lied like an angel about his own name, and he gave his watch to the nurse and spoke to her as he would to a queen. I don't believe I ever will forgive him for dying, for I worked the next thing to a miracle on him. Well, he died this morning, and--let me get a match--oh, yes, here's a little thing in my pocket he gave me to have buried with him. He told me about starting to a concert with this girl one night, and they decided not to go in, but take a moonlight walk instead. She tore the ticket in two pieces, and gave him one-half and kept the other. Here's his half, this little red piece of pasteboard with the word 'Admit--' printed on it. Look out, little one--that old chair arm is so slippery. Hurt you?" "No, Ralph. I'm not so easy hurt. What do you think love is, Ralph?" "Love? Little one! Oh, love is undoubtedly a species of mild insanity. An overbalance of the brain that leads to an abnormal state. It is as much a disease as measles, but as yet, sentimentalists refuse to hand it over to us doctors of medicine for treatment." His wife took the half of the little red ticket and held it up. "Admit--" she said, with a little laugh. "I suppose by this time he's admitted somewhere, isn't he, Ralph?" "Somewhere," said the doctor, lighting his cigar afresh. "Finish your cigar, Ralph, and then come up," she said. "I'm a little tired, and I'll wait for you above." "All right, little one," said the doctor. "Pleasant dreams!" He smoked the cigar out, and then lit another. It was nearly eleven when he went upstairs. The light in his wife's room was turned low, and she lay upon her bed undressed. As he stepped to her side and raised her hand, some steel instrument fell and jingled upon the floor, and he saw upon the white countenance a creeping red horror that froze his blood. He sprang to the lamp and turned up the blaze. As he parted his lips to send forth a shout, he paused for a moment, with his eyes upon his dead patient's half ticket that lay upon the table. The other half had been neatly fitted to it, and it now read: +-----------+ | Admit Two | +-----------+ (_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.) The Dissipated Jeweler