Mariana smiled and raised her finger warningly. "Much brighter to-day," she answered, "and sleeping sweetly." Anthony bent over the crib, holding his breath as he watched the child. He noticed that she looked thinner; the blue veins showed in a delicate tracery upon the forehead, and the crease around the tiny wrists was less deep. Mariana, serious and careworn, leaned upon the opposite side. "What do you think?" she whispered. "Only a little pale," he replied; "all children are when teething, I suppose." They went into the next room and sat down, leaving the door ajar. "The doctor was here again," began Mariana, playing with the folds of her gown. "June is the dangerous month--he says so." Algarcife raised his eyes and looked at her. "I wrote to Father Speares to-day," he said. For a moment Mariana was silent, a flush rising to her brow. Then she rose and came over to his side, putting her arms about his neck. "My poor love," she murmured. Anthony drew her down upon the sofa beside him. "It was tough," he said, slowly, "but--how I hate to tell you, Mariana!--there is something else." Mariana flinched sharply. "Surely he has not refused?" she exclaimed. "He is away, but the College has given me notice." Mariana did not answer, but she grew white and her lips trembled. Then she flung her arms out upon the sofa and laid her head upon them. Her sobs came short and fast. "Mariana!" She lifted her head and choked back her tears, sitting cold and stiff beside him. "If it were only ourselves," she said; "but the baby--what will become of the baby?" There was a strained note of cheerfulness in Algarcife's voice. "Don't cry," he said, laying his hand upon her shoulder. "I must get the money. Father Speares will lend it to me. We will pull through all right, never fear." Mariana rested her head upon his arm and looked up at him. "How ill you look!" she said. "My poor boy!" Then the baby cried, and she went back to it. As Algarcife rose from the sofa, he was seized with a sudden swimming in his head, and, to steady himself, leaned against the mantel. The objects in the room seemed to whirl in a tangle before him, and his vision was obscured by a vaporous fog, while a tumultuous ringing sounded in his ears. But in a moment it passed, and he was himself again. "Biliousness," he remarked, and started out in search of stray journalistic work. He found it easier to obtain than he had supposed, and, with his usual precision of method, calculated that by working fifteen hours a day he might, provided the supply of work continued, make up the amount which he would lose with the loss of the Bodley College. After a week of such work, he became optimistic in mind and correspondingly depressed in body. "If my brains didn't get so sluggish," he said to Mariana, "the work would be nothing; but caffeine will remedy that." And he returned to the use of the drug, silencing Mariana's remonstrances with a laugh.