The shop went
fairly well, and enabled Ernest to make the two ends meet. In the
spring and summer of 1861 he even put by a little money again. In
the autumn his wife was confined of a boy- a very fine one, so
everyone said. She soon recovered, and Ernest was beginning to breathe
freely and be almost sanguine when, without a word of warning, the
storm broke again. He returned one afternoon about two years after his
marriage, and found his wife lying upon the floor insensible.
From this time he became hopeless, and began to go visibly down
hill. He had been knocked about too much, and the luck had gone too
long against him. The wear and tear of the last three years had told
on him, and though not actually ill he was overworked, below par,
and unfit for any further burden.
He struggled for a while to prevent himself from finding this out,
but facts were too strong for him. Again he called on me and told me
what had happened. I was glad the crisis had come; I was sorry for
Ellen, but a complete separation from her was the only chance for
her husband. Even after this last outbreak he was unwilling to consent
to this, and talked nonsense about dying at his post, till I got tired
of him.
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