There are times when a simple acknowledgment of wrong-doing, or a humble apology, is sufficient; there are other times when it is expedient for me to confess my utter inability to understand how I could have behaved in such a base and brutal manner; but only once in years am I obliged to collapse dejectedly, my face expressing horror and revulsion as I wipe cold sweat, imaginary or real, from my brow, while in a broken voice I insist that _I_ didn't,--that if I seemed to, it was the devil who had suddenly possessed me. This time Marion was disinclined to accept any such explanation, contending that if I allowed myself to become possessed I might take the consequences, and I had such a short time in which to depict the extraordinary sensations that accompanied the outbreak that she was ready to start for the train before I had made my case really convincing. She relented sufficiently, however, on the score of parting, to forgive me provisionally, but she hinted that she was taking Paul with her so that if I had another seizure I might enjoy it alone. She hoped, also, that I would make a strong effort to avoid being seized in the presence of strangers who might not understand that I was irresponsible. Did I think she could trust me to behave with decorum if I should be sent for to attend poor Auntie's----obsequies? These, and other insinuations, I bore with patient quiet dignity, as became a man who had been lately dispossessed, and my demeanor had such an effect upon Marion that she bade me good-by with the same affectionate warmth that would have fallen to my lot had I behaved with my customary courtesy. It was not until the next day that I began to think that we might have been too hasty in concluding that Aunt Sophy was seriously ill--although I could think of no other reason for her sudden change of plans and her summons to Marion, but I was not left long in doubt. That afternoon a telegram arrived from Marion assuring me that there was no cause for alarm and that she would be home the next day. I awaited her arrival with eager curiosity and impatience, and I was mystified to see her step off the train looking radiantly happy. Aunt Sophy, she declared, was never better in her life, and looked ten years younger, but no further information could I extract until we reached the house and Paul went off to look after his pets. Then I inquired anxiously if she had confessed about the chickens. "N--no," she admitted, with smiling hesitancy, "I--I didn't. Auntie's mind was so taken up with--other things."