“Oh, it’s nothing, doctor, I--well, you see, I am not used to--to late hours,” said the poor little chap, with a painful effort to smile. “Perhaps some fresh air might make you feel better,” I suggested, “I will raise another window.” “N--no, never mind. I believe I’ll just step to the door for a moment, if you don’t object. I feel a little--” I grasped the situation, and hastily escorted my visitor to the veranda. Appreciating the delicacy of my guest’s position, I then discreetly returned to my sanctum and resumed my cigar. Certain peculiar sounds that came through the open door, confirmed my hasty diagnosis. I waited until the tumultuous heavings of my young friend’s diaphragm had ceased, and then went out to ask him to return to the library, but he was nowhere to be seen. The “wise child” had gone! As I stood there musing, and thinking that nicotine levels all intellectual distinctions between children, a firm hand was laid on my shoulder and a voice said in my ear: “Doctor, you have been sleeping in your chair about long enough. Go to bed, you silly fellow!” I was about to follow my wife’s advice, when-- “Ting-aling-a-ling!” came a ring at the telephone. I fear I was not very suave as I answered-- “Hello, hello! What’s wanted?” “Why, the baby’s got the colic to beat the very devil, and I wish you’d come down right away.” “Get out!” I howled. “You’ll have to get some other doctor. I don’t call on strangers at night,” adding, _sotto voce_, “nor anybody else, if I can help it.” “Why, doctor, don’t you know who this is?” “No, I’ll be hanged if I do. Who the deuce are you, anyhow?” “Who? Me? Why, doctor, I’m Smith!” LEAVES FROM A SUICIDE’S DIARY I was very young when the idea of suicide first suggested itself to me;--my life had its troubles as far back as my memory extends. I have a vivid recollection of taking a certain degree of interest in the subject when I was a mere lad,--long before I first thought of keeping a record of my impressions. My father had whipped me for some trivial matter; so trivial was it, and so severe my punishment, that I was overwhelmed with a sense of the cruel injustice of it all. Father was a stern, cold man, and a man of moods. He could be affectionate at times, and I presume that deep down in his heart he loved me, but, as I have said, he was a man of moods--and they were not always pleasant ones for those around him. It is a curious psychic fact that some men are subject to storms of passion which, concealed through politic motives from all but those most entitled to consideration, seemingly must be vented upon those whom affection should protect. My father was such a man, and I, his eldest child, was the member of the family who most often suffered from his horrible nerve storms. As I grew older he became more and more inconsiderate in his treatment of me, and more and more severe in his punishments.