“There’s too much liberty and recklessness among young men,” he went on. “They have too much their own way. Parents ought to see what misery it will lead to. If they don’t care for what the child may make them suffer, they ought to recollect what the child has got to suffer when at last it wakes up to life as it is, and finds itself with ruinous tastes and habits, and not one right idea of anything. I am inclined to believe that it would be better for half the children in the world if they were brought up and trained by the state instead of by their own parents.” They had reached the station, and he stepped slowly out of the carriage. His wife ventured to ask how long he would stay away. “Oh! I’ve nothing to do in New York,” he said carelessly. “I shall not stay there more than two or three days.” He leaned into the carriage, and took her hands. In the darkness she could not see his face, though the light from outside shone in her own; but his voice was tender and regretful, even solemn. “Good‐by, dear,” he said. “You have been only too good to me. May God reward you!” He bent to kiss the hands he held, then hurried away before she had recovered herself sufficiently to speak. “What a good‐by it was!” she thought with a startled heart. “One would think he were never coming back again.” He did come back, though, and sooner than he was expected. He appeared at the door the next evening, nearly falling in, indeed, so that John had to steady him. Annette had run out of the drawing‐room on hearing the servant’s exclamation, but, at sight of her husband in such a state, was about to turn back in disgust. “It isn’t liquor, ma’am,” John said. “Something’s the matter with him. I told you yesterday that he wasn’t fit to go away. Just push that chair this way for him to sit down in, and bring him a glass of wine.” “I had to come back,” the young man said. “I was sicker than I thought, and not able to go on. I don’t know how I reached Crichton; and just now, walking up from the station, the cold wind on my forehead made me dizzy. I thought I should feel better to walk. Don’t be frightened, Annette. I can go up‐stairs now.” He had every symptom of fever, and before morning had grown so much worse that a doctor was sent for, though much against his will. “I don’t believe in doctors,” he protested. “My mother always cured me when I was sick without sending for a doctor. It’s all guess‐work. They only know what you tell them, and they sit and stare at you, and ask you questions when you don’t want to speak a word. I hate to have a doctor look at me.” Mr. Gerald was indeed a very difficult patient for both doctor and nurse, irritable beyond expression, and nervous to the verge of delirium. At first no one was allowed near him but his mother. Then he found her tender sadness depressing, and insisted on having his wife in her place. Finally he begged John to take care of him.