This little conversation disconcerted Henry Hindes, and his uneasy condition was augmented by the entrance of an old friend, a Colonel Brinsley, whom he had known for years. ‘My dear Hindes,’ exclaimed the colonel, as he threw himself in an arm-chair, ‘you might knock me down with a feather. I was on my way here, when I met poor Mr Crampton. Never saw such a change in any man in my life. Why, he’s the shadow of his former self. Of course I’ve heard about the sad loss he has sustained, but, hang it all! Hindes, although it is a terrible thing to lose a child, it doesn’t as a rule shrivel a man up to half his usual size. He is a mere skeleton. His clothes hang upon him in bags. I never was more shocked in my life.’ ‘She was his only child, and he cared for her very much,’ replied Hindes, in a low voice, as he played nervously with a paper-knife. ‘Ah! yes! yes! doubtless, and he lost her by some terrible accident or other, didn’t he? What was it? Some people say she committed suicide, but that doesn’t seem likely to me. Only, the young people of the present day think no more of taking their lives than of threading a needle. How did it happen?’ ‘It was an accident--a pure accident,’ said Hindes; ‘she fell over the cliffs at Dover.’ ‘Very dreadful! No wonder the poor old fellow feels it! She was very pretty, was she not? The beauty of Hampstead, so they tell me. And only married a few days. How sad! Is it true that it was a runaway match?’ ‘It was, but I think my partner would rather the matter were forgotten now that she is gone,’ replied Hindes. ‘God bless my soul, Hindes, you look very ill too, now I come to look at you!’ exclaimed the colonel; ‘have you taken it to heart as much as that?’ ‘It has been a trying time for everyone concerned, naturally,’ replied his companion, ‘but I rather fancy my looks may be attributable to my having had a bad faceache lately, and been obliged to take morphia to induce sleep. It always leaves me feeling more ill than before. But it is impossible to keep a head for business without rest.’ ‘True, but why don’t you try opium by inhalation? That’s the stuff to make you feel jolly! My wife says I shall ruin my health by it, but, as I’ve practised it now for twenty years and am none the worse, I fancy I shall continue it till I die. But only now and then, you know, only now and then. I contracted the habit whilst I was in China, where I suffered terribly from ague and fever, and it has never quite left me, so when I feel a fit coming on, out comes my hookah and, by Jove! in a quarter of an hour I’m ready to dance a jig.’ ‘It must be wonderful stuff,’ said Henry Hindes, musingly. ‘It’s magical in its effects--perfectly magical,’ returned the colonel, enthusiastically. ‘I don’t care if it’s injurious, or not. I shall never part with my hookah till I die. You try it next time you have the toothache, my boy, and you’ll thank me evermore.’