The Doctor drank half a bottle _plus_ one glass, the wife half a bottle _minus_ the same quantity, which was a marital privilege, of an excellent Cote-Rotie, seven years old.

Then the coffee was brought, and a flask of Chartreuse for madame, for the Doctor despised and distrusted such decoctions; and then Aline left the wedded pair to the pleasures of memory and digestion.
'It is a very fortunate circumstance, my cherished one,' observed the Doctor--'this coffee is adorable--a very fortunate circumstance upon the whole--Anastasie, I beseech you, go without that poison for to-day; only one day, and you will feel the benefit, I pledge my reputation.' 'What is this fortunate circumstance, my friend ?' inquired Anastasie, not heeding his protest, which was of daily recurrence.
'That we have no children, my beautiful,' replied the Doctor.

'I think of it more and more as the years go on, and with more and more gratitude towards the Power that dispenses such afflictions.

Your health, my darling, my studious quiet, our little kitchen delicacies, how they would all have suffered, how they would all have been sacrificed! And for what?
Children are the last word of human imperfection.

Health flees before their face.