and not himself who went to the table where the hypodermic case lay on a clean towel. His fingers fumbled. He had his back to his father, and his wet eyes could hardly see the syringe.
"Make it a strong one, old chap," said the voice from the bed.
"I will."
Kit was rather a long while filling the syringe, for he was smothering tears. Yet, that last act was done quickly, with an almost fierce and eager gladness. Kit rubbed gently with a finger on the loose skin of his father's wasted arm.
"That will put you to sleep, pater. I will come in again soon."
"Thanks, old chap."
"Shall I turn out the light?"
"Please."
Kit bent down and kissed his father on the forehead, turned out the light and went softly out of the room.
But in that other room he broke down.
"I—I've done it,—an overdose."
She took him into her arms, and he lay with his face on her bosom, weeping.
Kit lay and listened, and his wife listened with him, for from that other room came the sound of faint stertorous breathing.
She had felt Kit trembling.
"I gave him a big one. He—he mustn't wake again. He must not wake."
She knew what was passing in her husband's mind, for she too was listening to that heavy breathing, praying for it to cease, willing it to cease. Hours seemed to pass, with the moonlight dwindling, and the room growing dark, and still that rhythmic breathing continued.
She felt Kit stirring beside her.
"Not enough"
He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand, and she, feeling his anguish and his weariness, willed with all
