"Kilmarnock," made in Glasgow, could hurt anyone. He knew
that his hand shook, and his brain reeled, and his eyes
were bleared; but he never blamed the whiskey. He knew
that his patients sometimes died while he was enjoying
a protracted drunk, but of course, accidents will happen,
and a doctor's accidents are soon buried and forgotten.
Even in his worst moments, if he could be induced to come
to the sick bed, he would sober up wonderfully, and many
a sufferer was relieved from pain and saved from death
by his gentle and skilful, though trembling, hands. He
might not be able to walk across the room, but he could
diagnose correctly and prescribe successfully.

When he came to Millford years ago, his practice grew
rapidly. People wondered why he came to such a small
place, for his skill, his wit, his wonderful presence
would have won distinction anywhere.

His wife, a frail though very beautiful woman, at first
thought nothing of his drinking habits--he was never
anything but gentlemanly in her presence. But the time
came when she saw honour and manhood slowly but surely
dying in him, and on her heart there fell the terrible
weight of a powerless despair. Her health had never been
robust and she quickly sank into invalidism.

The specialist who came from Winnipeg diagnosed her case
as chronic anaemia and prescribed port wine, which she
refused with a queer little wavering cry and a sudden
rush of tears. But she put up a good fight nevertheless.