"I don't know what to do. I can't make him take it." "You'll have to let him alone for awhile I guess, maybe he'll change his mind after awhile." At three o'clock the doctor was again at the telephone. "Doctor, he just will _not_ take it," the voice was now quite distressed. "I can't manage him at all." "You _ought_ to manage him. What's a wife for? Well, go to bed and don't bother him or me any more tonight." But early next morning Silas' wife telephoned again. "I thought I ought to tell you that he hasn't taken it yet." "He'll get well anyway. Don't be a bit uneasy about _him_," said the doctor, laughing, as he rung off. * * * * * "It's time to go, John." Mary was drawing on her gloves. She looked at her moveless husband as he sat before the crackling blaze in the big fireplace. "This is better than church," he made reply. "But you promised you would go tonight. Come on." "It isn't time yet, is it?" "The last bell will ring before we get there." "Well, let's wait till all that singing's over. That just about breaks my back." Mary sat down resignedly. If they missed the singing perhaps John would not look at his watch and sigh so loud during the sermon. And it might not be a bad idea to miss the singing for another reason. The last time John had gone to church he had astonished her by sliding up beside her, taking hold of the hymn-book and singing! It happened to be his old favorite, "Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood." Of course it was lovely that he should want to sing it with her--but the _way_ he sang it! He was in the wrong key and he came out two or three syllables behind on most of the lines, but undismayed by the sudden curtailment went boldly ahead on the next. And Mary had been much relieved when the hymn was ended and the book was closed. So now she waited very patiently for her husband to make some move toward starting. By and by he got up and they went out. No sooner was the door closed behind them than the "ting-a-ling-ling-ling" was heard. The doctor threw open the door and went back. Mary, waiting at the threshold, heard one side of the dialogue. "Yes." "Down where?" "Shake up your 'phone. I can't hear you." "That's better. Now what is it?" "Swallowed benzine, did she? How much?... That won't kill her. Give her some warm water to drink. And give her a spoonful of mustard--anything to produce vomiting...... She has? That's all right. Tell her to put her finger down her throat and vomit some more..... No, I think it won't be necessary for me to come down..... You would? Well, let me hear again in the next hour or two, and if you still want me I'll come. Good-bye."