You ire looking very pale, Iris. What is the trouble?"
"I am feeling very miserable, Andrew."
"You are always talking that way, my dear."
"But I feel that this is something different. I--I am fearful that I
shan't live long."
"Nonsense," with a cheery laugh he knew so well how to assume when the
occasion demanded.
His cheerfulness was contagious, and she smiled faintly.
"If you would only reform--"
"Not a word on that threadbare question, Iris," he interrupted quickly.
"I am tired of it, and you know it. I've something here that'll be good
for your nerves."
He drew a bottle from his pocket and poured a few drops into a glass that
stood near. Then, mixing with water, he offered it to his wife.
She drank it without a word.
"You will soon feel better, dear," he assured her in the kindest tone
imaginable.
"Oh, dear, I hope so."
She closed her eyes, and was soon in a profound sleep. Barkswell sat
watching her, the thin face and hollow eyes, and muttered to himself:
"She suffers, poor girl, but I will be merciful. She shall not suffer
long.
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