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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