Just picture, if you can, a young man bidding his betrothed good-bye as he goes away to begin his struggle with the world in his honest effort to provide a home before marriage. That he became a drug clerk, eventually, is neither here nor there. Just the same, another man came into the life of the little girl back home, a man of affluence, whose wealth contrasted strongly with the meager income of the far-away drug clerk. That his life of dissipation made hers one of sorrow and shame after their marriage everyone knows and her surprise was felt when he died suddenly of heart failure in a gambling den after losing his all. Then poverty came to the wife and she sought work, and found it in a factory. The grind was too much for her delicate system. One day they carried her home and the doctor came. To the druggist ran her child with a prescription. Not a moment should be lost. The young clerk had prospered, for he now owned a business. Realizing from the actions of the child that life or death depended on him, the druggist hurriedly grasped a bottle and filled the prescription. The wrong bottle! "God! What have I done?" The policeman could not say where the child had gone. A few moments' search seemed ages, but the house was finally located. The child approaches her stricken mother with a spoonful of liquid from the bottle. A sharp, nervous knock at the door. The child stumbles and falls as an excited man rushes into the room. There is little more to tell here. We leave the picture to unfold the best part of the story.