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 ing to talk to the proprietor about a bill he owed me. I knew you wondered.

"Well, Eunice got a fur coat, and a machine, and other things she's wanted ever since she married me and never had, and she was happy—just watching how happy she was made it pretty nearly all right. Then, how it happened I don't know, but we got hold of some rotten stuff. Wood alcohol. Bought it from a boat off the coast, and thought it was o.k.—we'd gotten stuff from the same fellow before. Tonight I learned that a man we'd sold a quart of it to had died. I went out to see him. Jock, he had a wife and four little children, all under eight years old. And no money. None of them looked as though they got enough to eat. Jock, when I saw those kids—crying, and not knowing what they were crying about except that their dad was gone and wasn't ever coming back any more—well, they opened my eyes, that's all. I knew then. I'd killed their father myself, just as sure as though I'd stuck a knife into him. Do you think I could live on after that?

"I thought I'd do it on the way home, but I couldn't, I had to see Eunice just once more and say good-bye. She wouldn't know it was good-bye, of course, until afterward, but I had to see her. That's why I came back. She's asleep now. With her hair spread out over the pillow and her eyelashes curling on her cheeks. I love her so, Jock. I love her better than anything in heaven or earth. You be good to her, won't you? You're the best friend I ever had. Oh, Jock, take care of her, help her forget!"

The next few weeks were freighted with a melancholy so heavy that his whole inner being seemed to droop with the weight of it. And mingled with the melancholy there was a protest, violent and strong.