In the bitterness of self-reproach I pulled the pouch from my pocket, asking myself whether, after all, the love of a good woman was not a far more precious possession.

Without giving myself time to hesitate, I stood up and firmly cast my old pouch out at the window.

I saw it fall at the foot of a fence.

The train shot on.
[Illustration] [Illustration] By the time I reached home my sister had been pronounced out of danger.
Of course I was much relieved to hear it, but at the same time this was a lesson to me not to act rashly.

The retention of my tobacco-pouch would not have retarded her recovery, and I could not help picturing my pouch, my oldest friend in the world, lying at the foot of that fence.
I saw that I had done wrong in casting it from me.