He missed the litter of trashy novels he had been wont to see.
"I told you I was learning to walk;" she added, with a smile, "I really do walk somewhere every day."
"That pleases me most of all," he said in his cheery way, "but what will Dr. Bull think. You know he prescribes rest and quiet."
"I don't care one bit; I have long since cut his acquaintance."
The end of the year rolled round. Eleanor watched her husband's face with ever increasing anxiety. One evening he sat buried in thought from which all her endeavors could not rouse him. He did not feel well, he said. All night he tossed and muttered. Calculations and figures were uppermost.
He was up early, as usual, and away. Eleanor hastened her preparations, and carefully counted her little hoard—the earnings of months. Early in the afternoon she came home with the proceeds of her last batch of type-writing, glowing with exercise, and the happiness of contributing at least some hundreds to meet her husband's creditors. He was there, lying on the sofa, pale and hopeless. Forgetting all else, she flung herself beside him with a sob.
"Oh! Harry, my dearest! Tell me what it is that is killing you—I have a right to know."
"It is ruin, Eleanor. I have brought you to poverty—you whom I would have given my very life to make happy."