Margaret and Celia had been out driving that afternoon, for John had
seen them from the drug-store windows.

If they had come home, they were probably rushing distracted about the
house, trying all the possible and impossible remedies they had ever
heard of to relieve him. John hoped they were not feeling too unhappy
about it--the squire would doubtless be all right in a few hours.

John lived with his aunt, not far from Squire Shirley's, and, as he
passed the large brick mansion, he noticed that there were many lights
there that night.

Usually there was a light only in the library so late as this. None of
the curtains had been drawn, which was certainly an unusual state of
affairs.

A broad flood of light streamed from one of the front windows toward the
gate. A girlish, uncovered head was leaning dejectedly against the cold,
icy gate-post, and the light turned the fluffy blonde hair into a
shining aureole.

"Miss Kirke!" John exclaimed, in amazement. "What is the matter? Is--is
Squire Shirley worse?"

"Noth--nothing is the matter," faltered Celia, making a few
ineffectual dabs at her tear-swollen eyes with her handkerchief. "That
is--everything is the matter. They have given my uncle an over-dose of
opium. There was too much in the powders, the doctor says--a great deal
more than the prescription calls for. Doctor Pratt is with him now, and