"Too much for you, old gal," got to be an exclamation so wonderfully
consoling that, it crept into my sleep, and in those halcyon days I
often waked up by the side of Malinda Jane, muttering the words, "Too
much for you, old gal." Waked up, I think I said. Ah! would I had never
waked up, particularly on the dismal clouds which for a season darkened
my domestic sunshine!

Scarce half a twelvemonth elapsed, ere the retiring disposition of
Malinda Jane seemed to shrink into even greater seclusion. I frequently
found her powerful mind wandering, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. In our
evening walks, which invariably preceded retiring for the night, she
leaned heavily on my arm.

Although the appearance of our daily repasts did not seem to justify it,
the cash demands for market-bills suddenly became enormous; and, when I
expostulated, my reasonable objections only produced tears. An
apparently needless grief had crept into our quiet home, and a lack of
confidence that pained me. For many weeks I helplessly pondered the
unaccountable mystery.

At last (oh that it had taken any shape but that!) the enigma developed
itself. Returning home one day, I had straightened my collar and
smoothed my hair before opening the door (feeling a proper pride in my
personal appearance, these preparations are usually a preliminary step),
when suddenly, just as the portal moved on its hinges, my sense of smell
was saluted with the odorous fumes of gin. From the first suffocating
whiff of this aromatic cordial do I date the commencement of my grief.
Malinda Jane, I knew, never indulged in as much as a sip of Cologne: so,
convinced that the breach of discipline was the guilty act of a servant,
with all the offended dignity I could embody in my deportment, I went