Barton was well acquainted with the proprietor—Joe Tims by name. He certainly would not have been mistaken for a teetotaler. He was, however, considered a model landlord, because he would not sell liquor to a man after he was drunk; though he never hesitated to furnish him with as much as he would pay for until that stage was reached. Barton had frequently been there before; for he was a young man who would take a glass with a friend, and had once or twice in his life been intoxicated. In fact, he belonged to the great army of moderate drinkers.

When he came in front of the hotel he heard voices within, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, he opened the door and entered.

As he stepped in he found several young men, with many of whom he was well acquainted, standing in front of the bar, glasses in hand, just about to drink. The one who was "standing treat" hailed him with, "Come, Barton, take something," and, being in a reckless mood, he said, "I will take brandy." The decanter was handed to him, and he filled his glass more than half full, which was noticed by the landlord and young men present, and thought for him very singular.

After he had drained his glass, he said, "Come, boys, it's my treat now! What will you have?"

They again stepped up to the bar and each took his glass. "I will have some more brandy," he said, and he again took twice the quantity that is usually taken.

"Be careful, Barton, my boy," said Tims; "that brandy is 'the real old stingo,' and will set you up before you know where you are. I don't want you to think I care how much you take, but would not like you to do something for which you will be sorry afterwards."

"I guess his girl has gone back on him," remarked a young man by the name of William Stewart. "I hear that English snob, Ginsling, is now shining round there, and that pa' and ma' favor his suit."

Several of the others, with the same want of good taste as had been manifested by Stewart, joined him in giving expression to a number of coarse jokes and vulgar witticisms.

Barton stood as if stunned for a moment, and then, with a frown, said: "Gentlemen, you will oblige me by changing the subject."

As he requested, the subject was allowed to drop by those present, but not before they had stung poor Barton almost to madness.

"My God," he thought, "then it has come to this, that she for whom I would sacrifice my life, through the folly of her parents has become the object of the coarse, vulgar witticisms of bar-room loafers! The thought is almost unendurable."

William Barton was too sensitively organized to pass through his present fiery ordeal without terrible suffering. We have already said he was kindly and gentle, but under this he had an intensely passionate nature; which, combined with an extreme sensitiveness and a rather weak will, constituted him, of all persons, less calculated to endure the peculiar trial to which he was now subjected. He was, in fact, one who, under such circumstances, would display his weakness, and give a man with a cold, selfish, unfeeling nature, every advantage over him. The night in question he drank until Tims positively refused to give him any more.

"No, Barton," he kindly said, when the former had taken his fifth or sixth glass and asked for another; "no! you are not yourself tonight, and have taken more than is good for you. I am now using you as I would have another deal with my own son under similar circumstances."

Barton became wild and foolish; in fact, if he had carefully thought out the best mode of procedure to give his enemies the advantage over him, he could not have improved upon his present course.

He was assisted to his home that night in a state of maudlin intoxication, to awaken next morning with an aching head and remorse gnawing at his heart, for he had, to his other sorrows, added the thought that he had disgraced his manhood and lost his self-respect.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE CONSPIRATORS PERFECTING THE DETAILS OF THEIR CONSPIRACY.

It was a month or two after the events narrated in the last chapter when there was another meeting at the Bayton House of those who were the principal opponents of the Dunkin Act. It was an informal gathering, convened for the purpose of having an exchange of views as to the best method to adopt to prevent the Act from being successfully worked, and also to bring it into general disrespect and contempt. Of course the proprietor, John Rivers, was present; and beside him were Sealy, Townly, Sims, Porter, Tims, Ginsling, McWriggler, Bottlesby, Flannigan, and a disreputable lawyer by the name of Murdon.

The Act had now been law for over a month. Some of the hotel-keepers had desisted from selling for the time being, while others sold as usual, and, as a consequence, had been informed upon and were summoned for trial. They had to appear the day following their present meeting. "I have been as good as my word," remarked Rivers. "I said I would not quit selling for a single day, nor have I. They are to have me up to-morrow. Let them do their best. I'll give them all they make."

"What will you do," said Tims, "if they fine you, as they are likely to do?"

"I am not fined yet, and will not be if my friend Murdon here can prevent it; but if I am, I will appeal to the county court, and I know the judge will postpone his decision as long as possible. Then, if he decides against me, I will appeal to a superior court, and, I can tell you, it will take time and money before the case is settled. But we will talk this over after a while; let us now attend to the business for which we have more particularly met to-day; that is, how we can best turn public sympathy against the Dunkinites."

"I thought," remarked Sealy, "that was all settled at our last meeting."

"So the outlines were; but we have to-day to arrange in regard to detail," said Bottlesby.

"Well," said Ginsling, "I should say the best means to adopt to accomplish our purpose is to consult as to the men in the different localities whom we think can be approached. Then we should consider how this is to be done, and who, in the several cases, will be best to do it."

"That's just it," said Townly; "I could influence a man that some one else could not approach, while he would have power over another where I would utterly fail."

"I see," remarked Porter, while a cynical smile curled his sensual lips; "we are to say to as many silly flies as possible, 'come, walk into my parlor;' and if we cannot induce them to come ourselves, we are to employ some of our imps to accomplish that purpose; and, when we get them there, we are not to let them off until they are thoroughly soaked. We are then to turn them out as finished specimens, to illustrate to the public the efficacy of the Dunkin Act. Is that your game, gentlemen?"

"Yes; that's about the idea." answered Rivers. "I admit it seems rather hard, and may involve some suffering, and I am sorry we have to resort to such means to accomplish our ends; but the temperance fanatics have driven us to this, and upon them rests the responsibility."

"If that is your game, gentlemen, you can count me out," remarked Bill Tims. "I have been in business now for a great many years, and I never have yet sold to a man when he was drunk. I don't purpose to begin now. I can assure you, gentlemen, it means too much suffering for women and children."

"I have thought just as you do," said McWriggler, speaking for the first time, "and must yet admit it seems rather hard; but, you know, 'Violent diseases require violent remedies.' You are well aware if the Dunkinites succeed, you and all your fellow hotel keepers will be ruined. So it is a matter whether the ruin shall come to your home or possibly to the homes of those to whom you sell. In such a case I should not be long in coming to a decision. In this world every man is for himself. It is for you to take care of yourself, and let the Dunkinites take care of their proteges. he fools are bound to drink anyway, and their wives and children must suffer sometime, and it might just as well come now as in a few months hence. If it becomes a matter whether my wife and I shall suffer or somebody else and his wife, I can assure you I am going to take care of myself and those belonging to me every time."

"Tims is wonderfully squeamish," sneered Rivers. "If we had been permitted to do a legitimate trade, it would not have come to this. I have invested every cent of my capital in the hotel business in this town, and my place is not yet paid for; if this Act is a success, my property will depreciate in value nearly half, my trade will be ruined, and my wife and children will be little better than paupers. Now, as Captain McWriggler has put it, if I am to decide whether my family is to suffer or the family of some other man, I take it, if I don't care for my own I am a miserable fool. The one thing for us to consider is how we can defeat the Dunkinites, and we must not be very particular regarding the means we employ to accomplish our object."

"The question for us to settle now," said Sealy, "for it is no use wasting time in argument, is what individuals are there in the different localities that can be made tools of for our purpose? The best course, I think, to pursue is that suggested by Ginsling; that is, to make a canvass of the different localities, and see who can be influenced. To commence, who can be used for the purpose in Bayton? Come, Rivers or Bottlesby, you are better acquainted here than I am; name over a few."

"You had better do it yourself, Sheriff," answered Rivers.

"Well," said the sheriff, "if you are too modest to do it, here's at it. There are Morris, Dr. Dalton, Ashton, Flatt, McDonald, Smith, Murphy, McLaughlin, and Stewart."

"You forget to mention the name of the would-be son-in-law of our friend Sealy—Bill Barton." As he said this, he looked with a quizzical sneer at Sealy and winked at Ginsling, but neither of them appeared to notice the remark.

"Who are there in your locality, Townly?" he asked.

Townly mentioned several persons he thought might be approached, and added: "I am certain, though some of them are keeping straight at present, all that has to be done is to put liquor before them, and they are bound to take it every time."

"What I can learn by the inquiries I have made and by observation," said Murdon, the lawyer, "is this: the temperance party are having quite a jollification because a number of those whose names have been mentioned have kept sober since the Act came in force. I also learned that a great many who gave a reluctant support to the Act are now pleased they did so, because, as they say, it has been the means of keeping these men from drinking; and they argue, if it has been effective in their cases it will be just as effective if it is adopted all over the Province, or even the Dominion. Now, if the men you have named are led to get on a bender or two these very persons will be led to change their tune, and will condemn it as a failure just as emphatically as they now endorse it as a blessing."

"That's just it," interjected Bottlesby. "Why, I was talking with Old Gurney this morning, and the old fool at once mounted his usual hobby. He pointed me to Ashton, Morris, and Dalton, who, he said, were keeping sober since the Act came in force, though they were going rapidly to destruction previous to that time. Now I know, and so does every one that is not blinded by fanaticism, that no power on earth will long be able to keep these fellows from drinking, for if whiskey is to be had they are bound to have it. If we use them as tools to accomplish our purpose we will only be shortening the agony of both themselves and their friends."

"Then, gentlemen," said Rivers, "let us now consider how we can best accomplish our object. I suppose those who are most familiar with the parties of whom we have spoken, had better be left to use their own discretion as to how they shall bring about the desired result."

"Ginsling can give a good account of Ashton and Dr. Dalton. Can't you?" said Bottlesby.

"I'll try," he answered, with a diabolical leer. "All I can say is this, in one of the cases I have frequently tried and never failed, and I think I'll manage the other."

We will not trouble our readers by repeating any more of their very interesting and disinterested conversation. Before they separated, every locality in the county was canvassed over, and every man who had been an unfortunate victim of drink, but who had kept sober since the Act came in force, was to be approached by the one who would be the most likely to succeed in influencing him to his fall. In fact, they concocted a scheme that night that was worthy of Satan himself. They also had a special conference with Murdon, the lawyer, so as to be prepared for the coming trials, and several who had been subpoenaed were brought in and questioned regarding what they actually knew, and also posted as to the manner they could best evade the questions which would be put to them, without swearing to that which was actually false.

"If I cannot frighten them half out of their wits," said Murdon, speaking of the magistrates who would try the cases, "then I will miss my guess. The most of them know but very little of law, and are easily bothered. It is my intention to browbeat them all I can to-morrow, and then dare them to convict. You must be specially frightened, Sealy."

"I guess you'll find me equal to the occasion," he replied, with a knowing wink.



CHAPTER XXIX.

MR. BROWN'S OPINION OF THE TRIAL AND THE PRESIDING MAGISTRATES.

"I told you it would be a farce, did I not? How could it be otherwise, when a man like Hubbard was the presiding magistrate? His sympathies were entirely with those who had violated the law; and though he made an effort to conceal his bias, the attempt was a failure."

"I agree with you, Mr. Gurney; the whole thing, to me, seemed like a put-up job, and the bench were like children in the hands of that crafty lawyer. I never witnessed a greater exhibition of imbecility than was manifested by both Hubbard and Broban. They appear to have studied law to about the same extent that Sealy has the Bible, and you have an idea of about how much that is."

"Yes, Mr. Brown, I have an idea! And I also have an idea there was an understanding between Murdon and Sealy. The fact is, the bench consisted of two old geese and a fox. Two of them were lukewarm supporters, who would 'damn it with faint praise;' and the third was a rabid opponent, and he was the only one who was qualified, either by native or acquired ability, for the position."

"But I thought, Mr. Gurney, that both Hubbard and Broban were strong supporters of the bill. I know they voted for it. But I was surprised that they were chosen to try these cases. I considered them incompetent to do so. In fact, I have often wondered that men so utterly unqualified were ever appointed to the position."

"In regard to their being supporters of the Dunkin Act," said Mr. Gurney, "they, like many others, voted for it because they found it popular to do so; at the same time, I believe, they wished it to fail, for their sympathies were entirely with the drinking party, and if it is a success they will deserve no credit for it."

"From what I saw yesterday, I must agree with you, Mr. Gurney. I am sure they did not wish to convict. But how was it that Squires Stebbins and Griffiths did not try these cases?"

"In my opinion, Mr. Brown, they were afraid to act. They said important business called them away; but I am almost certain they made business in order to escape the duty. I understand they have been subjected to a species of bull-dozing. Being both of them merchants, they were threatened by the liquor party with a loss of custom if they acted, and they had not enough backbone to stand the pressure. I have also been informed that their wives, who were in abject terror, met and had a consultation, and concluded it would not be safe for their husbands to act, as there had been threats of personal violence and of injury to property; so, under these influences, 'important' business was manufactured for the occasion. They have thus escaped the responsibility!"

"Yes," said Mr. Brown, "and left those two non-entities to be gulled by Sealy and bullied by Murdon. I must again express my surprise that such incompetents should have been appointed to their positions."

"They are specimen bricks of the big batch the Government turned out a year or two ago. Why, do you not know that they manufactured magistrates by the wholesale? Many of them were appointed—not because of their qualifications, for they were notoriously ignorant—but because they wished to reward them for services to the party, and to insure their loyalty in the future."

"I am afraid," said Mr. Brown, "when you have to depend upon such broken reeds, and have so many other obstacles to meet, you will find it difficult to successfully work the Act."

"Yes, we will have to meet and overcome difficulties; but we have anticipated this from the first. I must confess, however, that I was disappointed at the attitude of some who, I thought, would be its strongest supporters. I find they are craven-hearted, weak-kneed, and afraid to give active assistance. They say it will injure their business; so it is a matter of selfishness with them. If it fails, it will be because of the half-hearted support we receive from so-called respectable temperance men and moderate drinkers. I know the Act is far from perfect, because the liquor party in Parliament succeeded in introducing clauses that somewhat weaken its effectiveness, and they now attack it because of these very defects. But with all its defects, we would succeed in working it if we had the sympathy and hearty support of all its professed friends; without this, though it came forth with the stamp of the Infinite, it would fail."

"You think we have too many of the genus mollusk in the temperance ranks, Mr. Gurney? These creatures, with, no backbone, infest and curse the Churches of to-day, and I have no doubt they will prove the greatest curse to the temperance cause. A half-hearted friend in the citadel is more to be dreaded than a foe without."

"Yes, Mr. Brown; more to be dreaded, and generally more to be despised."

"I understand, Mr. Gurney, the liquor party are jubilant over the result of the trial. I heard Captain McWriggler expatiating upon it this morning, and he said the Act and all sumptuary laws of similar character are a humbug."

"I have no doubt he will say so," answered Mr. Gurney; "and so will all unprincipled demagogues. They are willing to pander to the liquor interests, or anything else—no matter how low and demoralizing it may be—if it only helps them to power. I understood what he was at. He said to Mr. Martin, 'I told you it would end in a fizzle;' and then continued talking to him in a similar strain for some time: and when he was through, the latter said 'he thought he was about right.' But you know as well as I do, Mr. Gurney, that Martin is weak, and easily influenced."

"Yes, I know it, Mr. Brown; and all such men as he is will be approached, and, if we keep them on our side, it will be by making the Act a success from the first. In regard to yesterday's trial, I am willing to admit it was a great failure of justice, or, to use McWriggler's classic language, 'a fizzle.' But he knew, as well as we do, what led to that result; for, as I remarked a few moments ago, the whole proceedings were a farce. Between the vexatious objections of Murdon, the pettifogger, who had charge of the defence, and of Sealy, who, I believe, had entered into a conspiracy with the former to defeat the ends of justice by browbeating and cajoling the other two magistrates, the trial was made a complete fiasco."

"And there was some rather crooked swearing done there, was there not, Mr. Gurney?" asked Mr. Brown.

"Swearing! I should think there was! I shuddered as I listened to the evidence of some of the hotel-keepers and the miserable creatures they had degraded by their traffic. I was always aware that whiskey was a fearful demoralizer, and I have seen some striking illustrations of the fact before; but the swearing done yesterday by men whose word a few years ago would not have been questioned, has demonstrated, as nothing else could, its power to deprave. Why, they twisted, and quibbled, and tried in every possible manner to evade the questions put; they swore they were not certain the liquor they drank was intoxicating, when it was evident to all who heard them that the statements they were making under oath were untrue."

"Are you not now more dubious as to the result than you were before the trial?"

"Yes; I am willing to admit I am not so sanguine as I was," Mr. Gurney replied. "What with weak or else utterly profligate and unprincipled magistrates; with opponents of the lowest and most vicious instincts, who have poor creatures that are completely under their control, and seem so lost to every vestige of honor as to be willing to swear to anything in order to screen those who furnish them with liquor; with a large percentage of the press prostituting its power in assisting our enemies; and with timid and vacillating friends to help meet this determined and unprincipled opposition, I must confess I am somewhat troubled. But the thought of such men as Ashton, Morris, and Dr. Dalton, with their stricken and despairing families and friends, nerves me for the conflict, and makes me resolve that, trusting in God, I will fight it as long as He gives me strength to do so; and, when I die, God will raise up those who will take my place and the place of those with whom I am associated. I am certain, in the end, our cause will succeed. It may not be during my life. It may be long, long years hence, when the cause of temperance shall ultimately prevail—but it will prevail some time. We must remember that 'one day with the Lord is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day;' and, though this prevalence of evil and the triumphing of the vicious may cause us to be impatient and cry out in our anguish, 'How long, O Lord, how long?' yet God will sweep away the scourge from our land, like He swept away slavery from our mother and sister lands. It is for us to pray, and watch, and work, and leave the rest with God; and some day there will be a great shout, and we will cry, some on earth and some in heaven, 'God has gotten us the victory?'"

"Well, Mr. Gurney, I, like you, believe that temperance will ultimately prevail; but I do not believe it will be in the near future, and I am afraid this attempt will be a failure. If we try to push legislation faster than public sentiment will warrant us in doing, we will defeat our object and help the enemy. In my opinion, there will have to be years of agitation; and the great masses, who are either indifferent or antagonistic, will have to be enlightened, and their sympathies enlisted, before a law like the present can be run successfully. I have to-day conversed with men who professed to favor our side, and yet they expressed great sympathy for Rivers because he was fined, and some of them gave it as their opinion that the Act would end in failure. I believe the farmers are very much annoyed because the tavern-sheds are closed against them; and some say, if they had to vote again it would be to reverse their former one. The fact is, there must be a strong public sentiment in our favor if we successfully cope with those men who have their capital invested in the business, and who will fight with the vigor that selfishness and desperation ever impart. To-day's trial indicates we have desperate and unscrupulous foes to meet, and that they can find miserable and degraded tools in attendance to do their dirty work, and help them defeat the ends of justice."

"I am more sanguine than you are," said Mr. Gurney; "and while I am willing to admit that the imbecility of the magistrates who professed to be our friends, the coldness on the part of a great many who, I expected, would give us enthusiastic assistance, and 'having done all, would still stand;' and the manner in which both the tavern-keepers and their degraded tools, as I believe, perjured themselves, have made me a little less confident than I was before yesterday's exhibition. Yet I am still of the opinion the Act can be made a success. I, at least, am determined to do all I can to make it such."

"I, like you, Mr. Gurney, was astonished at the reckless manner with which some gave evidence yesterday, for while I was certain the defendant in each case was equally as guilty as Rivers, he was the only one who was fined, the others clearing themselves by equivocation, and what, at least, appears to me very much like perjury. And that miserable Grogson evidently was posted to swear straight through. I was amazed at his flippancy and his evident willingness to swear to anything that would screen those who had received him."

"I am not surprised that you were, Mr. Brown; for we know that Dr. Dalton and Ashton had no reason to swear to anything that was untrue, and we do not believe they would be capable of doing so, if they had, and they both swore that Grogson, and, in fact, the whole party, drank liquor on the night in question. So the latter actually perjured himself to screen a man who has taken hundreds of dollars from him, and is, more than any one else, responsible for his being the degraded wretch he is at present, and for his wife and children being in the most abject poverty."

"I remember him when he was in comfortable circumstances and considered a respectable man," said Mr. Brown, "and rather a fine young fellow. He was illiterate, of course, but possessed good native talent and a fund of humor which seemed almost inexhaustible. He was a good business man for one whose early opportunities were but limited; and his tact and shrewdness largely compensated for what he lacked in other respects. He married an estimable young girl from the neighborhood in which I was raised; but he took to drinking, and from that time degenerated very rapidly, until he is the degraded creature you saw yesterday. His cronies have very appropriately given him the sobriquet of 'Whiskey Jemmie.' I understand his wife and children are existing in utter poverty—brought, by his abuse, to be abject specimens of squalor and rags."

"Yes, Mrs. Holman and my wife were to his shanty the other day, and found them actually in need of the necessaries of life; and some time ago, when Mr. Mason took them some food, Grogson waited until he was out of sight, and then meanly ate up what had been brought for his starving wife and little ones, and though Mrs. Grogson was ill at the time, and part of what was brought was prepared especially for her; yet the brute devoured every morsel. And I heard they were laughing at Porter's, because, as they put it, he had 'sold the parson.'"

"I believe Rivers has appealed, has he not, Mr. Gurney?"

"Yes! on the ground that the law is ultra vires. It is appealed until next month, when the case will come before Judge McGullet, and, as he is entirely in sympathy with the antis, I have no doubt he will decide in their favor. Then we will have to carry it to a Court of Appeal, when we hope to obtain justice."

"I have no doubt but you will," said Mr. Brown; "but, in the meantime, they will continue selling liquor, and, having no license to pay, they will endeavor to have a perfect carnival of drunkenness. When they think it is time to strike, they will circulate a petition to have the Act repealed, and the great majority, who will only look at the effect without stopping to consider the cause, will be in sympathy with them, and they will carry the appeal by an immense majority. Do you not think so?"

Mr. Gurney remained in an attitude of deep contemplation for a few moments, and then answered:

"Such may be the case; but we will have to throw our best energies into the work, and leave the rest to God. If we do our part and remain faithful to each other and the cause we have espoused, we will have done what we could; and if our efforts are for the present fruitless, we shall, at least, have no reason for regret."



CHAPTER XXX.

THE INSULT TO ALLIE ASHTON—HER GALLANT DEFENDER.

Six months have elapsed since Mr. Gurney and Mr. Brown engaged in the conversation as presented in the last chapter. During that period there had been a great many hotel-keepers tried and fined for selling liquor, though numbers had escaped through the utter depravity of both them and their miserable dupes; and also because, in a great many instances the magistrates who presided were utterly incompetent to try the cases.

The hotel-keepers had pursued to the letter the diabolical policy they had agreed upon; that is, they had defied the law, and sold liquor with reckless impunity, having, when fined, appealed, and then continued selling and giving it away until they had literally accomplished their object, and flooded the country with liquor, making a perfect carnival of drunkenness and debauchery. They could afford to be lavish in their expenditure, as they had a wealthy corporation to back them in their iniquity.

Among those who had been enticed to fall was the unfortunate personage who is the chief character in this story. Ginsling had been successful, and Richard Ashton had once more been led astray.

Ruth had scarcely become convalescent when this occurred, and was again completely prostrated. The family were now only kept from want by the earnings of Eddie and Allie, though Mr. Gurney and other friends were exceedingly kind, and did everything they could, without wounding the sensibilities of Mrs. Ashton, to help her and her family.

Ashton was now completely demoralized. He had become so depraved by drink as to have lost all self-respect, and seemed to be regardless of the condition of his family. He had not only desisted from bringing anything in to help support them, but the miserable man had, again and again, stealthily taken some souvenir of other and happier days, and pawned it in order to procure liquor.

He had also become so completely transformed by drink that, in his wild, drunken frenzy, he would be cross and even abusive to his wife and children; and there was that shadow of a great sorrow ever lowering over them, and that wearing unrest and fear that is ever the patrimony of those who are the inmates of a drunkard's home.

It was now a providential thing for them that Eddie had procured a situation with Mr. Gurney; and that Allie, though she was so young, was able to turn her musical accomplishments to account, and give instruction in music to several pupils. They, by their united earnings, as we have before intimated, managed to keep the wolf from the door.

Ashton was now most of his time absent from home, drinking at some of the hotels or groggeries, and he had become so utterly degraded that even Ginsling, the man who had been the chief instrument of his ruin, would avoid him; and Rivers and Porter, and the other tavern-keepers, would turn him out on the street, as they did many others, in order to demonstrate that the Dunkin Act was a failure. At such times he would stagger home if he was able, which was not always the case; and once or twice he nearly perished from cold and exposure. Eddie frequently had to search through the groggeries to find him and lead him home.

One evening, just at twilight, as Allie was returning from giving a lesson to one of her pupils, she had to pass by Porter's hotel on her way home, and, when opposite the bar-room door, she heard her father in loud conversation with some one inside. Impelled by an impulse to rescue him from impending evil, she opened the door and walked in. She found herself in the midst of a bar-room full of drunken, ruffianly-looking men, a long row of whom were standing at the bar, with glasses in hand, while one of their number was proposing a toast of the grossest character. To her dismay her father was among them. She stood for a moment or two hesitating what to do, and she trembled violently, and experienced a sinking sensation as she found every eye turned upon her. The voice of him who was proposing the toast was instantly hushed, and every glass was lowered and placed on the counter. There was a dead silence for a few moments, as all seemed intuitively to understand they were in the presence of innocence and refinement; in fact, of a being superior to themselves, and one who was not accustomed to such surroundings.

"Do you wish to see me?" said Mr. Porter.

After a moment's hesitation, in order to gain control of herself, Allie answered his question in true Yankee style; that is, by asking another. She asked, with great dignity—though she had to assert all her will-power to conceal her agitation:—

"Are you the proprietor?"

"I am," said Porter. "Will you not step into the sitting-room?" he said, with rough kindness; for naturally brutal as he was, even he for a moment was toned down by the presence of the fair young girl.

"No, thank you," she answered. "I came in to ask my father to come home. I heard his voice as I was passing by, and thought if I stepped in and asked him he would not refuse to accompany me."

In a moment there was a marvellous change in the manner of Porter, and he asked, in reply to Allie, in a coarse, ruffianly manner:

"Are you Ashton's daughter?"

"I am, sir," replied Allie, straightening herself up, the manner of the question, more than the words, causing her cheeks to flush and indignant fire to flash in her eyes.

"I wish, then," he continued, "you would take the drunken fool home, and keep him when you get him there. I have been bothered enough with him lately."

"Why, then, have you, and others in your business, enticed him to drink? He would not have been in the sad state he is to-day, sir, if he had not been tempted to do wrong. Would to God, for my poor mother's sake" (and as she mentioned her mother's name her eyes filled with tears), "he would never again put foot in this place. Father!" she said, walking over to him, and putting her hand affectionately on his arm, "you will come, will you not?"

"Yes, my girl, I will," answered her father, who, though very much under the influence of liquor when she so unexpectedly made her appearance, seemed considerably sobered by what had transpired. He also keenly felt the degradation of having his pure, gentle young daughter in a place with such surroundings.

"I will, my girl," he reiterated; "and what you said was true. I was waylaid and tempted, and I believe it was all planned by him and others of the same profession. Had it not been for this, you would not have found me here to-day, and would also have been spared this degradation. But if I and others had not been weak their schemes would have failed."

"If you or any one else say I enticed you, or employed any other person to do so, I say, in reply, it is a lie!" said Porter; and he not only looked at Ashton as he spoke, but also at his daughter.

Ashton was maddened by the insulting remarks which were evidently intended for both. He turned almost savagely to Porter, and said:

"You dastardly ruffian! if you were not a coward you would not insult a young girl." As he said this, he struggled to get away from Allie, as if he would fly at Porter; but she threw her arms around him, and, crying piteously, begged him to come home.

"Oh, father!" she said, "I want to leave this horrible place. Oh! don't say anything, but come home."

"You had better leave," said Porter; "and if you were not an old man, and your daughter was where she should be—at home—I would knock you down. I would allow no man who was able to defend himself to say so much to me without making him sorry for it."

"You wouldn't," said a tall, athletic young man, stepping forward as he spoke. "Well, I will give you an opportunity to make good your words. I say that the man who is contemptible enough to make use of the language you have, in the presence of a young lady, is a bully, a brute, and a miserable coward. Now, make good your boast."

Porter, stung by the epithets applied to him, sprang with the fury of a tiger at the young man who thus defied him; but if he expected to surprise him by the suddenness of his attack, or to crash him with his vast bulk, he counted without his host, for the young man, with the agility of a cat, stepped to one side, and, as he did so, struck Porter such a blow that he fell to the floor as one dead. He then turned to Allie as if nothing had happened, and said, with gentle courtesy:

"Miss Ashton, this is no place for you; if you will leave, I will accompany Mr. Ashton and you home."

"Oh! is he dead?" she said, as she viewed with anxiety and alarm the prostrate form of the brutal ruffian.

"You need not be in the least alarmed about that, miss," said one who was bending over him; "Joe Porter ain't so easily killed as that; though I tell you, that young fellow's blow is like a kick from a boss. He did hit him a stunner, but I must say he just got what he deserved."

Just then Porter, in whose face they had been sprinkling water, began to show signs of life and to mutter fearful oaths against Ashton, Allie, and the young man who had so nobly championed their cause.

"Let us go," said Allie; "let us leave this awful place. Come, pa, for he will soon be up. Oh, how can you frequent such a place as this is?"

When they stepped outside, they found the twilight was deepening into darkness. Allie thanked the young man for his gallant conduct, but would not accept his proffered escort: she said she did not wish to trouble him further. As they parted she shook hands with him, as did her father, and bade him a cordial good-bye.

"I am very much obliged to you," said Mr. Ashton to him, "and shall never forget your kindness; but I hope you may not get into trouble for your valor in our behalf."

"There is no danger of that," he said; "I am abundantly able to take care of myself. But, sir," he continued, "if you will allow one who is young enough to be your son to put in a word to you in the way of advice, I would say, do not be found again as you were to-night. My dear sir, you are altogether too good for such company as that; and then, you involve others in your own degradation."

"I know it, sir; I know it too well. I take your advice as it is intended, and hope I may yet receive strength to follow it; but I have failed so often that I dare not make a promise. God bless you sir! Good-bye."

The young man stood looking after Ashton as he disappeared in the darkness. Allie had started a little before her father, and had not therefore been a listener to their conversation. She had to call into a store to make a few purchases, her father promising to meet her at the shop-door and accompany her home.

"There," soliloquised the young man, "is another poor fool who, possessing bright parts, is just about destroyed by drink. How many thousands there are, even in this country, just like him— going to ruin themselves at lightning speed, and dragging their families with them! What a beautiful girl his daughter is! What a figure! What eyes and hair, and what a beautiful complexion! How cultured and intelligent she appeared! She cannot be more than fourteen or fifteen, and yet she seemed to have the thoughtfulness and self-possession of a woman. The idea of one possessing her refinement being in the den of Old Joe Porter! I must endeavor to be better acquainted if we establish a business here. It was fortunate I went to make that enquiry. I guess Porter will not forget me for some time."



CHAPTER XXXI.

RICHARD ASHTON AND LITTLE MAMIE—MAMIE'S DREAM.

After Allie had left her father she hastened on, determined to get through her shopping as quickly as possible, so as to be ready to accompany him home. She now began to doubt if she did right to leave him, even for a moment, for might he not now be led by his appetite to some other groggery, and then what would be the result! She hastened out, and rejoiced to find him waiting for her, and together they silently wended their way home.

It was not their old home, for they were forced some time previous to this to remove from it to one that was much less pretentious; for now they had to exercise the most rigid economy.

Their present abode was a little rough-cast storey-and-a-half house, consisting of a main building and an addition. The main building contained three apartments down-stairs, one of which served for dining-room and parlor, and the other two were bedrooms. The up-stairs had not been finished, though they had managed to fix it up so that Eddie could sleep there; and by the mother's and sister's industry and skill it had been made quite comfortable; but it was not to be compared to the beautiful room which he possessed in his old home.

The addition contained the kitchen and pantry; and though very cold in severe weather, it served the purpose for which it was intended.

The principal apartment in the main building was very small; but though such was the case, and Mrs. Ashton was still weak and suffering, yet she and Allie had managed to give those little touches in its arrangement which indicated a cultured taste and made it snug and cozy.

The night in question, when Allie and her father came in, Mrs. Ashton was sitting in an easy chair, propped up by pillows. As she sat there, one could see that sickness and worry had wrought terrible ravages during the last year. Her thin, white face looked all the more ghastly because of her large, dreamy eyes; and her hands were so white and thin that they seemed as though transparent. Her hair, which had once been so golden, was now shimmering with silver; and no one who had known her a few years previous would recognize her now as the same person. Surely she had passed "under the rod." The suffering she had endured would have turned the rich purple wine of some women's natures into vinegar, and the drunkard's home would have been a miniature pandemonium; but it had not been so in the present instance. Ruth Ashton had borne her sorrows meekly; and, let me ask, what sorrow is greater than that which she had to bear? She had seen the man that she loved for his noble and manly attributes, ruined by strong drink; his bright intellect robbed of its lustre, and his loving heart made sluggish and cold. What shame she felt! For did not she and the children share in his degradation? What humiliation of spirit they endured! But she never spoke other than kindly to her husband. He had not the trite excuse of thousands of worthless husbands who are neglecting their homes and spending their money in the groggery, while their families are existing in squalor and famishing for bread. He could never say he was driven to drink by the naggings of a querulous wife; for though tried almost beyond human endurance—so tried, that the poor heart was well-nigh broken, and her flesh had almost failed—she never changed in her manner towards him, but was still the kind, loving wife she had been from the first.

When he and Allie came in, every eye was turned upon him to see if he was, as usual, intoxicated; and when Mrs. Ashton saw that he was almost as sober as when he left home, her heart was filled with joy.

"Hurry up, Mamie," she said, "and give your papa a seat. Take his hat, dear, and get his slippers. If you are not too tired, Allie dear, hurry up with the supper."

Ashton was touched by the thoughtful kindness of his long-suffering wife, and he went over to where she was sitting and tenderly kissed er. "You have been a true, good wife to me," he said; "God never blessed a man with a better one. So sinned against, and yet so forgiving; so faithful, so loving." Tears were in his eyes as he spoke, and then he gently kissed her again; but Ruth never uttered a word. He sat down on a chair which was near the table, and, leaning his head upon the latter, wept bitterly.

Little Mamie, who had grown considerably during the last year, had lost her baby manner, and possessed a mind much too mature for one of her age. She now spoke quite plainly, and seemed to understand the circumstances in which they were placed nearly as well as her elder brother and sister. She had of late always waited until she discovered what was her father's condition before she made any advances. If he was intoxicated she would sit, mute as a mouse, in the corner, with a look of thoughtful sorrow upon her face; but if he were not, she would steal gently up to him, climb upon his knee, and then, leaning her head upon his breast, kiss and fondle him, and coax him to tell her a story, or sing her one of his numerous hymns or songs.

And he always seemed happy to be the slave of this his youngest and frailest child, who, by her gentle witcheries, had so wiled herself into his affections as to have a power over him that no one else possessed.

He had not been sitting at the table long ere she gently crept up to him, and, climbing on to his knee, lifted his arm, and then nestled her cheeks to his until her streamlets of gold mingled with his grizzled locks.

"Oh, papa!" she said, "don't cry—please, don't cry. I pray to God every morning and every night that He may keep the naughty men from giving you drink, and I am sure God will hear me; then you will be as you used to be, and mamma will not cry as she sometimes does now."

Mamie little thought how her words went home to her father's heart—what feelings of shame and remorse they awakened.

"Oh, papa!" she said, "I had such a wonderful dream last night. I dreamt I was in heaven, and it seemed such a beautiful place. There were flowers far more lovely than any I ever saw on earth, and the trees were filled with birds of all colors; and they sang so sweetly—more sweetly than any I ever heard. And there were thousands and thousands of bright angels, and they had harps in their hands shining like gold. And there were thousands of men, women, and children there, all dressed in white, with something bright and beautiful in their hands. And there seemed to be a great high throne, and some one sitting upon it—just such a throne as mamma showed me the other day in a book, only far more beautiful. And the face of the One who sat on the throne shone more brightly than the sun, and lit up all the place. Oh, papa! I was so happy—more than when I have been playing with Allie among the flowers on a bright summer's day. And the angels struck their golden harps; and as the people and children sang, the music was more delightful than I can tell. I felt I was selfish to listen all alone, and that I must run and tell you all, that you might hear it also. But, just as I was about to start, I looked up, and you were standing by my side, looking down at me. And, pa, you did not look like you do now, but as you used to look when I first knew you—as my own dear papa—only there was no gray in your hair. Then you smiled so sweetly upon me, that I knew you were happy; and your face was bright and shining. I asked you where was mamma, Eddie, and Allie, that I might tell them what we were enjoying, and you said they were not here yet, but would be by-and-bye.

"Then it seemed as if we all left the throne and wandered by the beautiful river and picked the beautiful flowers that were so fragrant. Then I said, 'Oh, papa, I wish my mamma was here!' and just at that time I awoke, and mamma was standing by my bedside, smiling; for, it being morning, the sun was filling my room with light, and little Dickie was singing. I told mamma my dream, and she said she thought it was because of what she was reading to me, and the stories she told me before I went to bed; for, papa, she read that chapter which speaks of the 'great multitude which no man can number, who washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.' And she read me of the walls so high and beautiful, and of the streets of gold. She said no earthly home could equal it. And she thinks this, with Dickie's singing and the sun's shining, was what caused me to dream such a lovely dream. Do you think it was this that caused it, papa?"

Ashton looked down upon his fair, fragile young child, and, as he did so, he thought how far he had fallen from such purity as she possessed.

"No doubt, my dear," he said, "but your mamma's reading and the stories she told had something to do with your dream. But I think even the angels would come from heaven to whisper in the ears of one so good and beautiful as papa's little daughter."

"Oh, papa!" she said, "I wish we were all in heaven, and then we would be so happy. You would never drink again, because there would be no wicked men to give you whiskey; for mamma said, 'None that are wicked shall enter there,' and then mamma would not cry like she sometimes does now; because there shall be 'no sorrow there, and God shall wipe all tears from the eye.' Do you not wish we were there, papa?"

The tears were trickling down the cheeks not only of the father but also of Mrs. Ashton and Allie. She seemed to them too pure for earth, and fit for the association of those bright spirits of which she had been dreaming.

As her father did not speak—in fact he dare not make the attempt, for if he had he could not have controlled his emotion—her mother said:

"Mamie better not ask any more such questions. Papa, mamma, and all hope to be there some day; but we want to remain to work for and love each other until God sees fit to call us home. Now, my dear, do not say anything more about it to-night, because you make papa and mamma feel bad."

Mamie was subdued into silence, for a request from her mother always exerted a great power over her. She nestled so closely to her father's breast that she could hear the beatings of his heart, which, though he had fallen so utterly, beat only for his dear ones at home.

It would certainly have been a subject worthy of a great painter to depict that pure, beautiful child, sitting upon the lap of her sinful, erring father. Her face so smooth and radiant, his so seamed and gloomy. Her eyes large, full, and deep, with the light of a pure soul finding expression through them; his, blood-red and bleared from the effects of his recent and frequent debauches, and with the despair which was eating, like a canker, deep down in the heart, manifesting its intensity in those exponents of its happiness or misery.

"Papa, your supper is waiting for you," said Allie cheerfully. "Come, mamma and Mamie, your chairs are ready."

But we will leave this family scene to take our readers back to Porter's hotel.



CHAPTER XXXII.

A BAR-ROOM SETTLEMENT OF A MISUNDERSTANDING.

After Porter had been lifted to his feet, and had completely regained consciousness, he poured out a volley of oaths and foul expletives, and swore dire vengeance against Ashton and the unknown stranger who had championed his cause.

"I'll meet that fellow again," he said; "and when I do, I'll pay him with interest—you'll see if I don't; and if that drunken fool, Ashton ever enters this place again, I'll pitch him out quicker than he comes in. I have it in for him for giving me away to Old Service, and then swearing against me at the trial. Before long I'll get even with him for both."

"If you were to throw him out, Porter, it might be worse for you and better for him," said Stewart. "If Ashton had all the money he has left with you, I guess he would be willing to be put out—and stay out, too. I know it would have been a good thing for me if you, and others like you, had turned me out long ago, and never let me in again."

"I guess, Porter," said Morris, banteringly, "you'll not be in a hurry to meet that young chap again, for, as Tremaine said, 'his blow was like the kick of a horse.' Why, man, he knocked you as clean off your pins as if you had been a skittle! and I'll lay you any amount that he would use you up in five minutes. Don't you think he would, boys?"

Some of the boys to whom the question was referred said they thought he would, while others expressed a different opinion. Among the latter were two or three who were anxious to curry favor with Porter.

There are hangers-on at almost every groggery, who loaf around, day after day, for the purpose of what, in slang terms, is called "spunging,"—that is, they are either not able or not willing to pay for liquor themselves, and therefore sit waiting to be asked to drink by any customer who comes in and is willing to "stand treat." Of course it is to the interest of such creatures as those to be on good terms with the landlord—for it is only by his tolerance they can so cheaply indulge their bibulous propensities.

There were some of this class present when Morris asked his question, and they, of course, expressed the opinion that Porter, if he only had fair play, would be more than a match for his late antagonist, who, they said, had taken him at a disadvantage.

"I'd bet on Porter every time," said a burly loafer by the name of Tom Flatt, "if he only had a fair show. I'd liked to see him try it, at any rate."

"O you would, would you?" said Morris, in a sarcastic, rasping tone; "I believe that, but you would take care not to get into anything of the kind yourself. I never knew a man who was more careful of his own precious carcase. Now, let me tell you, I believe that fellow would clean you both out so suddenly you would be whipped before you knew it."

"That's so," said Stewart. "Why, he was quick as a streak of forked lightning."

"If I were you, Morris," said Flatt, "I'd shut up. A man who lets his wife lick 'un, and is afeared to go home because she'd pull his hair or broomstick 'un, shouldn't talk to other men about being cowards. I'd like to see my wife touch me."

As he spoke about his wife beating him, he doubled his ponderous fist and assumed a fierce look, which would lead one to conclude he would be a perfect hero under such circumstances.

What enabled Flatt thus to taunt Morris was the fact that one night the latter had come home frenzied with drink, and was very abusive to his wife and children. Indeed, he became almost uncontrollable, and began to smash up the furniture, when his eldest son, with the assistance of his mother, watching his opportunity, had overpowered and bound him. The story in some manner had leaked out, and the present occasion was not the first time he had been twitted about it.

"We know all about thee, Tom," said Tremaine, in answer to Flatt. He lived next door to him, and therefore understood the relation in which he stood to his family better than any one else did. "Thou art brave as a lion when thee's got that little wife of thine to thump, but thee's not so valiant when there are men around."

Morris now stepped forward and said: "Don't say a word, Tremaine. I want myself to settle this score with Flatt."

As he spoke he was trembling with excessive rage, and his eyes were blazing with the baleful fire which burned within. He was a man of powerful physique, and, when partially intoxicated, was quarrelsome and dangerous; and it was a surprise to those who were present that Flatt, who was a great coward, dared to taunt or provoke him. This could only be accounted for from the fact that the sarcastic words of Morris had so stung him as to throw him off his guard, and he therefore did not manifest his usual discretion when talking with one who had the power to defend himself.

"You just said," continued Morris, "that I allowed my wife to broomstick me and pull my hair, and that I was afraid to go home. Now, you are a liar," he hissed between his teeth, with the vicious venom of a rattlesnake, "and a sneak, and a sponge, and a coward; and if there is any manhood about you, defend yourself." As he said this he sprang at Flatt as a panther might spring on his prey.

There was a terrible scuffle for a moment or two, and several voices shouted in chorus: "Make a ring, and let them fight it out." How strange it is that so many who call themselves men love these brutal exhibitions—especially when they are not principals!

A ring was formed, and the two men, who had fallen on the floor, were tumbling over each other like bulldogs: they were hitting and gouging each other, and all the time swearing most horrible oaths. In fact, they were more like wild beasts than men.

"Enough! enough! For God's sake take him off!" said Flatt. "Take him off, or he'll murder me!" he again groaned out hoarsely, and the blood and foam oozed from his mouth and flew in flakes over his murderous antagonist.

Two or three seized hold of Morris and pulled him off, and it was well they did, for certainly he would have killed the miserable wretch whom he had at his mercy. All his latent ferocity seemed to be aroused, and he would never have stopped short of murder. As it was, he struggled and swore at them who interfered, and endeavored again to assault the half-throttled ruffian whom they had just lifted to his feet.

They took Flatt to another room and washed his face, when it was discovered that both of his eyes were very much discolored, his upper lip split, and his nose so battered that it corresponded with his name. In fact, he had been so changed in a few moments that his most intimate acquaintance would scarcely recognise him.

Morris had come out of the affray with barely a scratch or two. His attack had been so sudden and so ferocious that Flatt, though he was the larger man, had little chance to defend himself.

Joe Porter had been behind the bar when the events which we have described occurred; for the blow he had received had so shaken him as to leave him incapable either of resenting the taunts which he had flung at him by Morris and the others, or of interfering to stop the bloody affray which was the sequel to his own little affair. In fact, he did not have any special anxiety to risk his own precious person again. He, however, managed to signal to his son, a young man who had come in during the melee, and he went for the town constable. It was not long before that personage arrived, but the fight was ended. Porter gave him to understand he would rather no arrests were made; so he sent them to their respective homes, at the same time giving them to understand if he caught either of them engaging in a row again they should not escape so easily.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE HOUSE AND FAMILY OF MORRIS—HE NEARLY KILLS LITTLE HARRY.

When Morris arrived at his home after he left Porter's, he found tea ready, and his wife and children about to partake of it. When he entered, the children, who were always anxious as to the condition of their father, discovered immediately that he was in a state which would cause him to be on the alert to discover some slight or insult which would justify him in being cross.

"Why did you not wait tea for me?" he asked gruffly; "you must have been desperately hungry when you could not wait for a few moments."

"Now, Henry," answered his wife, "you know it is an hour after our regular tea-time; and I am sure, if you will only think of it, you will remember that lately you have been very irregular in your habits. We have several times waited tea for you until it was almost spoiled, and then you did not come."

"You knew well enough I would be here in time to-night, because before I left I told you I would; and it is no use of your trying to get out of it in that manner. I ain't a fool."

"I don't remember, Henry, your promising to be home for tea; and if I did, I could not have depended upon your promise, for, you know, lately you have disappointed us so often that we can no longer trust your word. Oh, Henry! I only wish I could trust you as I once could, and then there would not be a happier woman in Bayton."

"I don't want any of your snivelling, Nell," he said; "I'd rather have something to eat."

The supper was eaten in silence, the children being afraid to speak, and Mrs. Morris's heart was too full for conversation. She sat silently rocking in her low arm-chair, the tears welling from her eyes and chasing each other down her cheeks. She had noticed the scratches upon her husband's face, which he had received in his recent fight. She did not ask him how he came by them, for she well knew how violent his temper was; but she was almost certain he had been mixed in some low bar-room affray, and this thought pained her beyond measure.

When they were married he was a blacksmith in good circumstances, and carried on an extensive business; but he had for the last few years been drinking deeply, and, as a consequence, had so neglected his business that most of his customers left him; and this, with what he spent in drink, had so reduced him in circumstances that he and his family were now very poor. He had desisted from drink when the Dunkin Act came in force, and for a while his home was cheerful again, for a great sorrow was lifted from it, and his steady habits were bringing in money sufficient to purchase many little comforts which had been wanting during the time he was indulging in drink. But this did not last long, for he was one that was selected as a victim by the antis, and they soon succeeded in making him succumb to their wiles. I will not enter into a lengthy description of how their hellish purpose was accomplished, suffice it to say that in his case, as well as in Barton's, Ashton's, Dr. Dalton's, and many others, the conspiracy was, from the diabolical standpoint of the antis, a success. All over the county men were entrapped into drinking by the nefarious means employed, entailing, in some instances, horrible murders and deaths from accidents and exposure; and the misery which helpless women and poor little innocent children suffered will never be known on this side of the judgment. The victims fell easy preys to their wily seducers, for when a man once contracts an appetite for spirituous liquors it is, in nine cases out of ten, easy to tempt him again to his fall; and none knew this better than those who were engaged in this conspiracy, for they were old and experienced hands at the business.

Mrs. Morris keenly felt her present position. She had belonged to a very respectable family—being naturally of a proud, imperious disposition—and to think that she and her children had been reduced to poverty and rags through the drunken habits of her husband, had almost broken her heart. But this evening, when he came in with the marks on his face which led her to believe he had been engaged in another bar-room brawl—for this was not the first—the sense of their disgrace came upon her with such overwhelming force as to bow her proud spirit to the earth.

During the day she had been visited by her sister's husband, whom she had not seen for years, and she had experienced that humiliation which those only can understand who have been in circumstances of comfort, if not of opulence, and through the misconduct of others have been brought to poverty and disgrace, and, under these changed conditions, are visited by those they have known in the days of their prosperity. The early opportunities of her brother-in-law had not been at all superior to that of her husband; but he was now rich, residing in a palatial home, and the thought that he had found her such a victim of poverty and neglect, added to her accumulated bitterness.

Her husband, as he sat eating his supper, ever and anon cast his eyes to where she sat—her tears seemed to irritate him more than words could possibly have done.

"I don't see, Nell," he said, "why you should sit there sulking after that style. I guess I'll go back to where I came from, I do hate a person to sulk."

"I am not sulking, Henry," she replied bitterly; "but I am heart-broken with grief and shame. It was bad enough, surely, for me to be compelled to suffer the disgrace of being a drunkard's wife, and of being, with my children, dragged down from respectability to poverty and rags, without having to endure the thought that my husband—through his drunken, quarrelsome habits—had given people the opportunity to bruit his name through the country as a bar-room bully."

While she was speaking, her eldest son had entered the house. He was almost a man grown, and was a fine-looking, athletic young fellow. He, as well as his brothers and sisters, had suffered a great deal from his father's cruelty, and Mrs. Morris had frequently screened them from her husband's wild fury; for, though he had often threatened, he had never so far forgotten his manhood as to strike his wife. His son had lately decided not to endure any more abuse, nor, if he could prevent it, would he allow his father to maltreat his brothers and sisters. He acted upon this resolve when, on another occasion, as we have previously stated, he, with the assistance of his mother, had prevented him from smashing up the furniture; though, in order to do this, they had to overpower and bind him with ropes. Of course they could not have succeeded had he not been very drunk. Morris at other times in his wild frenzy acted as though he had just escaped from bedlam. So foolish had he been, that there was scarcely a door or a piece of furniture in the house which did not bear some mark of these seasons of desperation.

The son immediately saw that his father was in his most quarrelsome mood, for his eyes flashed fire; and no sooner had Mrs. Morris stopped speaking, than he replied in his most rasping tones:

"I want you to shut up, Nell, and if you don't I'll make you. I suppose, now Jim has come, you think you can run the establishment; and because you succeeded in tying me up the other day, you imagine you can do it again. I was drunk then. You had better try it on now if you think you will be able to complete the contract."

"Oh, Henry!" replied Mrs. Morris, "you know well enough that all we did was to prevent you from destroying the furniture and abusing the children, when you were so drunk as not to know what you were doing. Why do you go away and disgrace us, and then come back drunk to abuse us and make home wretched."

"It was thrown in my teeth to-night by Tom Flatt," he continued, without noticing what his wife had said, "that you and that precious son of mine, who is now sitting there grinning, tied me up the other day and whipped me. I guess he won't tell me that again in a hurry, as I nearly finished him; and I gave him to understand if he did I should complete the job. Now, I suppose, Jim, you want to try it on again; if you do, just come along—I'm not drunk now!"

"Now, father, why can't you behave yourself? You know we only prevented you from doing something you would be sorry for afterwards."

When Jim thus spoke he did not intend to be impudent to his father, but; on the contrary, to allay his temper; but his words had just a contrary effect, for the latter immediately sprang to his feet and said, while his eyes were blazing with passion:

"How dare you speak to me of behaving myself? Things have come to a pretty pass when you dare thus to dictate to me. This comes from your mother encouraging you to disobey me. Now you take your hat and go, or I'll make you,"

"I am not interfering with you, father; and if you were yourself you would not want me to go. If you let the others and me alone I will not say a word to you."

"Leave the house this minute," his father roared, "and don't dare to bandy words with me."

"Father," said the son quietly, "I'll not do it. I am not going to leave my mother and the rest here alone to be abused by you."

"You say you won't!" he hissed between his clenched teeth; "but you will, or I'll break every bone in your body."

As he said this he ran around the table to the place where Jim was standing; but the latter, nimbly avoiding him, dodged to the other side of the table, while the rest of the children ran screaming into another room. Mrs. Morris attempted to expostulate, but her voice was lost in the general confusion; and Morris had become so enraged that he was literally frothing at the mouth. He chased Jim around the table for a few times, but his efforts proving abortive, he, in his mad rage, seized a heavy glass tumbler and threw it, with all his strength, at Jim's head.

"Look out, Jim!" screamed his mother, in a voice of horror, and the boy dodging, the tumbler just grazed the side of his face; if he had not done so, it would have taken him square in the mouth, and would certainly have knocked out most of his front teeth, if it had not broken his jaw.

But, though Jim fortunately escaped, Harry, the brother next to him, was not so fortunate, for he happened to be standing behind— almost in line with Jim—and the tumbler, which missed the latter, struck him with terrific force just above the temple, and, glancing therefrom, struck the window-sash behind, shattering two of the panes to atoms from the force of the blow.

The boy, with a groan, sank to the floor, turning deathly pale as he did so, and in a moment the blood began to trickle down his face.

"Oh, Henry!" exclaimed Mrs. Morris, "you have killed Harry! Oh, how could you throw a tumbler like that? Jim, bring some water quickly."

The mother bent over her boy, who lay as one dead; and, as Jim came with the water, she bathed his head with it and sprinkled some upon his face. But their efforts to bring him back to consciousness were in vain, for he lay breathing heavily, but still insensible.

Morris, after seeing the effects of his reckless folly, stood for a moment as one stunned. He was no longer drunk, but a sober and deeply-penitent man. His boy lying there as dead, appealed to his father's heart as no words could have done, and he now would willingly have sacrificed his life if he could have recalled the events of the last half hour. He came up to the bed, where Jim had carried Harry, with face almost as white as that of his wounded boy, and whispered: "I have not murdered him have I, Nellie dear? Oh! my God, I hope I have not murdered him!"

And then, in his anguish, doing what he had not done for years, that is, sinking on his knees in prayer, he cried, as his bosom heaved with agony:

"O God! spare my child, and I will never drink again!"

Then, rising, he looked at Harry for a moment, and as there was no indication of consciousness, he said to his eldest son:

"Jim! run for Dr. Dean. I am sure, my boy, you will not linger a moment longer than there is need of your doing. Life and death may depend upon your haste."

Jim ran, and in a few moments returned with the doctor, who examined the boy, and said to the group who were so anxiously awaiting his decision:

"His skull is not fractured. I think it must have been a glancing blow, and I will soon bring him to consciousness. It was a providential escape, however; for if the tumbler had come direct, and struck him a little lower down, it would have killed him."

"Thank God!" exclaimed Morris.

"You may well thank Him," said the doctor, "for it certainly was a narrow escape for both of you; that is, you just escaped from being a murderer, and the poor boy here from being murdered. I have often warned you, Morris, against drinking, and told you it would end in some terrible catastrophe. I should think you would now reform."

"God helping, I will."

Dr. Dean was a very strong temperance man, and had been an active supporter of the Dunkin Act. He had, in fact, used all the power of his intellect to make the legalized selling of liquor a thing of the past; he was also an accomplished and eloquent platform speaker. His friends, after earnest solicitation, had obtained his consent to come forward as a candidate for Parliamentary honors. So he was at the present the recognized opponent of Capt. McWriggler, whose superior he was both morally and intellectually.

After a while he succeeded in resuscitating Harry. The latter opened his eyes, and as he did so they fell upon the doctor.

"Where am I, mother?" he enquired. "What is the matter? What is the doctor doing here?"

"Never mind now, Harry dear," she said; "you have been hurt, and if you are very quiet we will tell you after a while."

Having shut his eyes as if he were satisfied, or as if he were too weak to pursue the enquiry any further, the doctor felt his pulse again, and remarked: "He will be all right in a short time." He then gave them instructions as to how they should proceed in case of contingencies, and turning to Morris said: "I believe you have signed the pledge more than once, and a few moments ago you remarked you would never drink again. Did you mean it?"

"I did, and, God helping me, liquor shall never enter my lips again."

"Here is a pledge," and the doctor produced one. "Will you sign it? I always carry one with me to use on such occasions as this."

"I will, sir. And I am thankful to you for your interest in me. Pray for me, that I may receive strength to keep it."

Morris signed the pledge with trembling hand, and no sooner had he done so than his wife, throwing her arms around his neck, kissed him. "Thank God," she said, and then, casting her eyes heavenward, she prayed: "O, my Father, aid him to keep his promise."

"You kept sober," said the doctor, "for several weeks after the Act came in force, and then you were, with several others, tempted to drink."

"Yes," said Morris, "I was coaxed to drink by the sheriff, though I was weak and foolish to listen to him."

"It was a vile conspiracy," continued the doctor, indignantly, "and I am certain that some of those in the county who are now infamously degrading the most important offices in the gift of the Crown are among the conspirators. I am personally acquainted with numbers who were seduced to their ruin by this devilish conspiracy, entailing an amount of misery that it is impossible to estimate."

Before the doctor had finished speaking, Jim, who had been sent to have a prescription filled out, came running in with a look of horror on his face. "They are looking for you, doctor," he said, "to go down to Flatt's. They say Tom has murdered his wife."

"Another victim," said the doctor sententiously, and then he hurried away.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

TOM FLATT'S HUT—A DESCRIPTION OF THE SCENE IN WHICH HE MURDERS HIS WIFE.

When Flatt arrived at the hovel where his wife and children burrowed (for they could scarcely be said to live) he found them in the most abject misery. But I will ask my reader to accompany me to it.

Imagine a log shanty, twelve by sixteen in dimensions, roofed by troughs, or what appeared to be halves of hollow logs. The back of the shanty on the outside was not originally more than six feet high; but as the logs which formed the sides, and ends had so rotted that by their own weight they had settled considerably, it was now much lower. The shanty contained two windows, which were ornamented by having two or three old hats used as substitutes for panes of glass, and the panes which were not broken were so cracked and splintered that they were in eminent peril of being blown out at every violent gust of wind.

But the exterior of the shanty, dilapidated-looking though it was, gave no conception of the squalor and wretchedness which its walls confined. I will introduce my readers to the inmates.

Mrs. Flatt was an undersized, dark-complexioned little woman, who at one time possessed considerable personal beauty; but she had been so worn by toil, hard usage, and insufficient food, that she now appeared little else than skin and bone; in fact, she as much resembled a mummy as a being through whose veins throbbed the blood of life.

In different attitudes—on the clay floor, on the two miserable beds, and on the old broken chairs and benches of the hut—were distributed six children. They, if possible, were more squalid and wretched-looking than their mother; for though it was midwinter, not one of them was so fortunate as to possess a pair of shoes, but they had frequently to run out from the hut into the deep snow in their poor little bare feet, which were red, cracked, and bleeding from the cold. The miserable rags in which they were clothed did not serve to cover their nakedness; and their blue, pinched faces pathetically spoke of want and neglect.

The youngest of the number was a babe, some five or six months old; she was lying in a creaky old cradle, which squeaked when rocked as if uttering a discordant protest. She was a poor, pallid, little thing, that scarcely seemed to have strength to utter her low moan of pain, as she lay famishing for the nourishment which the now starved mother was unable to supply. The next older was barely able to toddle round on the clay floor; and they ranged up from that until the eldest of the six was reached, who was a bare-footed, bare-legged girl of eight. She was, however, so dwarfed through rough usage, insufficient food, and exposure, as to be little larger than an ordinary child of six.

"Mamma! I want a piece. I'se so hungry!" cried the third child from the youngest—a little boy, about four years of age. "Oh, mamma! I do want a piece."

"And so do I, mother," cried the next, a little girl of five. "Oh! why don't dad come with the bread?"

"Piece, mamma, piece!" whined out little Katie, the next to the youngest. "Piece, mamma, piece!" she cried out again piteously, as she toddled over to her mother, and, hanging on to the skirts of her dress, looked up with a famished longing that made the latter sob convulsively.

"Oh, children!" she said, "mother would give her darlings bread if she had any, but there is not a crumb in the house; no, dears, not one poor crumb, so I can't give my children any now; but I hope your father will come home and bring some bread with him; and if he does, then you shall all have some. Don't cry, now—you make mother feel so bad."

"Mamma," said Nannie, the eldest girl, "I wish father was dead."

"Hush, child," said the mother sharply; "you must not talk so." But in the mother's reproof there was an utter want of the emotion of horror at the astounding and unnatural wish of the child. It seemed as if she was reproved for giving utterance to her thoughts—not for entertaining them. In fact, the mother had often in her heart entertained similar sentiments, and wished that her drunken, brutal husband were dead.

When they were first married, Flatt had treated his wife well for a time, and they lived as comfortably as people of their means and limited stock of intelligence generally do. But he began to indulge in drink, and from that period until after the Dunkin Act became law, he seemed to be predominated with the instincts of a brute. He worked but little at his trade, which was that of a brickmaker, and the small amount that was earned by him was mostly squandered in drink. Mrs. Flatt tried to keep her children from starving by taking in washing; and very frequently the brutal husband and father would return from his drunken orgies to eat the scanty meal she had toiled so hard, with weary body and reeling brain, to procure for her children. If, under such provocation, she ventured to protest, she would be answered by blows, and many a time she had been beaten black and blue by the brutal monster.

After the Act came in force he had remained sober for several weeks, and there was comparative cheerfulness and comfort in the hut where he resided; the children, during that brief period, had plenty to eat, and they did not dread his coming home for fear of a beating. But it was not long before he was brought again under the force of his old habits. He was, in fact, met by those who had been appointed to induce him to drink; and they were as successful in his case as they had been in the other instances which we have mentioned. From that period, the life of Mrs. Flatt and her children had been utterly wretched.

Is it strange she had lost all affection for the brutal ruffian who had the right, by law, to call her his wife? or that his neglect of both her, and their children, his kicks and blows, had driven out even the last vestige of respect, and that now detestation—yes, even intense hatred—had taken full possession of her soul? And once, or twice, as he lay in his drunken slumber, utterly in her power, the awful thought had possessed her that she could, in a few short minutes, revenge herself for all his abuse by taking the life which had so utterly cursed and blighted her own. And then, when, coming to her better self, she meditated upon the sin of harboring such thoughts, a feeling of horror crept over her and chilled, her blood; when, throwing herself impulsively on her knees, the cry had gone up from her heart:

"Oh, my Father! save me from temptation."

The reader, after this explanation, can easily understand how it was she rebuked her child for giving expression to her thoughts rather than for entertaining them.

"But, mother, I do often wish dad was dead, and I might as well say it as think it," said Nancy.

"And so do I," boldly chimed in little Jack, a precocious and manly little fellow of seven, who very much resembled his mother; "for if he was dead he could not beat you and thump us until we were black and blue, mother. And he would not eat up everything from us, and drive us all out into the snow."

The mother sternly rebuked the children for talking in that manner. "No matter how bad he is," she said, "he is your dad, and it is very sinful to be talking after that style.

"Hush, children!" she whispered; "I guess here he comes!"

In a moment the only noise which could be heard in the shanty was the low moan of the baby, as it lay in the cradle, while from the outside could be heard the heavy, uneven thud of advancing footsteps.

"Drunk as usual!" whispered little Jack; "now look out for thumps and bruises. Oh!" he whispered through his clenched teeth, "I wish I were a man, then he wouldn't beat us like he does now, for I wouldn't let 'un do it."

"Take the baby, mother, and run over to Tremaine's," said Nannie; "I'm afraid he'll kill you."

"No, Nannie, I'll not run; if he kills me I can't help it; I'll not run away any more. I'm afraid it will come to that some day, but I will stay and take care of you all, no matter what happens."

The children had just managed to crawl under the two dilapidated beds when their father lifted the latch and stumbled into the room.

"Oh! what's the matter, Tom?" said his wife, as at a glance she took in his disfigured face.

"What's that to you?" he replied with an oath. "If you'd get me something to eat, it 'ud show more sense than asking what's none of your business."

"There is not a bit in the house," she replied, and then, stung into reckless madness by his asking for food when he had spent for whiskey the money with which he had promised to procure it, she continued bitterly: "The children have been crying for something to eat for the last two hours, in tones that would melt the heart of a stone, and I hadn't a crumb to give 'um, and you, who have been spending on drink what should have bought it for them, have the brazen impudence to come home drunk, demanding food. Go to the cupboard and get you some, if you think there is any there."

"Now, Nance, I don't want any of your chin music, but I wants you to get me suthin' to eat. You can't fool me; I knows you has got it in the house."

"God knows, Tom, there isn't a bit. Do you suppose if there was any I would let the children be crying for it and not give it to them? If you think so, you don't know me yet; for I can tell you it would have been given to them two hours ago, and not saved for one who allows his own flesh and blood to starve, while he spends that which would furnish them with bread for rum in a rum-shop."

The reader might be ready to assert, after reading this connubial wrangle, that the fault was not all on one side, but that Nancy's sharp tongue was in some measure responsible for Tom's drinking; that, in fact, if she had not been such a termagant he might, at least, have been an average husband. But if you have so concluded, I will endeavour to disabuse your mind; for Nancy, before she married Tom Flatt, was a smart, good-tempered lass, but his continued neglect and abuse had vinegared all her sweetness, and she was not of that temperament which could bear ill-treatment without giving expression to her feelings. If, in her youth, she had been surrounded by different associations, and then married to a man who could have appreciated her, she might have developed into an intelligent, loving woman; but the terrible wretchedness of her life, brought about by the faults of her husband, had turned all her nature into bitterness.

And let me ask any of my gentle readers if, under similar circumstances, honeyed words would have been uttered by you? If you had suffered such treatment, and not only you but your children, who were bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh, do you not think you would protest? If you were being dragged down into the slough of poverty, disgrace, and wretchedness, and you knew that he who was thus dragging you down could, if he were a true husband and father, place you in a position of comfort and respectability, but who was devouring from you and your children food that you had earned by the most menial drudgery—by the sweat of body and brain—and leaving you all to nearly famish for bread, would you not remonstrate? Nay, would not feelings of outraged confidence, of soul-anguish, sorrow, and shame coin themselves into bitter chiding words which you would be powerless to repress?

How many thousands of sweet, pure souls, who, in their innocent maiden days, were the embodiment of gentleness and affection, have, after marriage to some brute in human shape, been brought, by years of neglect and abuse, to become that which is among the most maligned and despised of all creatures—a scolding wife.

We must, in all fairness, admit that such Nancy Flatt had become. Her nature, as we have said, was intense, and she had endured a great deal in her early married life. At first she would gently remonstrate, but as years rolled on and she had not only to suffer neglect and abuse herself, but her helpless little ones also, her remonstrances became tinged with the acidity of her soured nature; and finally as toil, neglect, and hunger reduced her to the haggard, dejected creature we have presented to the reader, she would meet Tom's oaths and blows with her only weapon of defence, and pour out sharp, rasping words from her woman's tongue.

"I tell you what it is, Nance," said Tom, in answer to her chiding; "I want you to shut that jaw of thine and get me some grub, or I'll make you wish you had never been born."

"You have made me wish that a thousand times, Tom," she answered with passionate bitterness. "See that wasted arm," and suiting the action to her words she stripped up her sleeve; "look at my fleshless face—what has brought me to this but starvation and drudgery? Hear the moaning of that helpless babe in the cradle, crying for nurse that starvation has dried up. Oh, Tom! how can you spend your money in whiskey when you know we are starving at home? You knew when you left this morning there was not a morsel of food in the house, nor money to buy it, for you have not brought in a cent for weeks, and you promised when you left to come right back with bread, but instead of that you have spent the day in drinking whiskey and fighting with great hulking loafers like yourself, and now you come home to abuse your wife and children. You are worse than a brute; for brutes do provide for their own flesh and blood, while you have nothing better than oaths and blows for yours."

With fearful oaths Flatt sprang forward to answer his wife's passionate arraignment of his conduct by the method he usually adopted on such occasions—that was, by the irresistible logic of his ponderous fist. As she saw he was about to make the rush, her first impulse was to open the door and run for safety, for well she knew, from a terrible experience, that when he was aroused he had the ferocity of a brute with the temper of a demon. But as she was about to do so she saw he did not heed the cradle which lay in his way. The danger of her child caused the mother to be heedless of her own, and, with the wild cry, "Look out for the babe, Tom!" she sprang forward and snatched it from the cradle, thus bringing herself into the power of the furious brute. In his mad rage he picked up a trowel which, unfortunately, lay near him, and, as his wife was rising with her babe, he struck her with terrific force upon the head, the sharp corner of the instrument cutting through the flesh and imbedding itself deep into the skull, carrying the hair with it.

"Oh, Tom! you have killed me!" she groaned, as she fell forward on her face, covering her babe as she fell. But even in that terrible moment she must have had some thought of it, for she managed to shift over on her side, clasping it to her breast as she did so.

All the ferocity in Tom's brutal nature seemed to be aroused, and the sight of his wife's blood running down over her forehead and dyeing with red the pallid face of his child, which one would think might have moved even a demon to pity, only seemed to arouse the latent tiger within him, for he struck the prostrate woman again and again, until she settled heavily on to the floor and was limp and still. This act in the tragedy was complete, for Nancy Flatt was dead, and her infant lay clasped in her arms bespattered with the life-blood of its dead mother.

The children, who had been cowering under the beds, witnessed the terrible scene, and though they were frightened at their father's and mother's jangling, as they thought it would result in the latter being beaten—which was usually the case—at first they kept perfectly still, for fear of what the result might be to themselves if they drew their father's attention. But when he struck their mother with the trowel and she fell forward with her face bathed in blood, they gave vent to their terror in wild and frantic screams.

"Oh, dad!" cried little Jack, almost fiercely, "you've killed our mamma." And as he thus spoke he stepped boldly out and faced his father, seeming to have lost all fear in the presence of the calamity that had befallen them; and then he and Nanny escaped from the house and ran over to Tremaine's. When they reached there Nannie, who had outrun her brother, burst into the door and said in a ghastly whisper, which appeared all the more horrible because of her pallid face, over which her hair was streaming in tangled masses, giving her a ghost-like appearance:

"Oh, Mr. Tremaine, dad has murdered mother! Run quick, sir, and see!"

Just then little Jack came up with face as pallid as Nannie's, and though panting for want of breath managed to say:

"Dad struck mother with the trowel!—and cut an awful gash in her head!—and her face is all covered with blood—and I think she is dead."

Tremaine, who was really a noble fellow, though he unfortunately did indulge in strong drink, immediately ran over to the shanty, and when he arrived there he found the children's fears were well founded, for a spectacle so ghastley in its details met his view that, strong man as he was, he stood for a moment as if bereft of motion, and even thought.

Nancy Flatt was lying stark dead on the floor, and her babe, which was yet muttering its low moan of hunger, was clasped close in the arms of its dead mother, and was dabbling in the blood which had flowed from the wounds in her head and face.

Tom was not to be found. He had evidently realized, when it was too late, what would be the consequence of his terrible crime, and had fled to escape the Nemesis, in the form of avenging justice, which he knew would soon be on his track.

I will not, however, enter into the details of his capture, imprisonment, trial and execution; for Tom Flatt was executed for the murder of Nancy, his wife; and on the scaffold he, as thousands of others in similar circumstances have done, blamed his wife's murder, his own sad fate, and his children's orphanage, to love for strong drink.

Reader, was Tom Flatt alone responsible for the murder of his wife, or were there not others who, at least to some extent, shared with him that responsibility? Could the man who sold him the liquor, or he who manufactured it, or the Government who drew revenue—which to all intents and purposes was blood money—from its sale, or the intelligent electors who, in the exercise of their franchise and by their sympathy, endorsed that legislation, escape all responsibility? My dear reader, ponder this question, for great issues are involved in your conclusion.



CHAPTER XXXV.

JOHN, JUN.'S WEDDING—BARTON'S MURDER—LUELLA SEALY'S SUICIDE— GINSLING'S TRAGICAL DEATH.

The truth of the aphorism of Solomon—"Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein"—is verified by multiplied examples the wide world over every day of the year, and it received a very striking verification in the events which we shall chronicle in this chapter.

The reader will recollect that the leading mind among the conspirators was John Sealy, Esq. He was the one who suggested the infamous scheme, which was afterwards adopted, of leading as many poor unfortunates as possible to drink. He did not calculate that into the pit which was thus dug for others he himself, or some member of his family, might possibly fall. But we anticipate.

His only son, John, jun., had been associating with low companions and conducting himself in a manner that was not at all satisfactory to him, John, sen., or to Mrs. and Miss Sealy; and, to crown all, they had every reason to believe he was actually paying his address to Miss Angelina Porter, a daughter of Old Joe Porter, who kept the groggery. This, of course, was very distasteful even to Mr. and Miss Sealy; but language would fail us in any attempt we might make to delineate the utter consternation of the high-toned Mrs. Sealy when she became satisfied that the rumor was founded on fact. She had again and again remonstrated with him, but without effect, as he had treated her remonstrances with good-natured contempt; and when she resorted to harsher means and applied contumelious epithets to his intended, he returned a Roland for her Oliver, so that she, finding it was useless to try to influence him, sulkily retired from the encounter.

But though baffled in that direction she was determined not to give up; for she thought if she could not accomplish her object by one method she would resort to another, and thus she might possibly succeed. She, in fact, determined to address a letter to Miss Porter, to see if she could not influence her. Acting upon this impulse, the vain and foolish woman sent her a very insulting epistle, such a one in fact as could only emanate from a coarse and vulgar mind.

Miss Porter treated it with the contempt it merited, and did not even mention to John, jun., that she had received it; and he might have remained in blissful ignorance of his mother's folly had she not in her insane fury spitefully said to him: "I have sent the low, designing thing a letter, giving her to understand what we think of her, and what she may expect if her schemes are successful and she entraps you into marrying her."

That information drew the retort from the dutiful and affectionate son that Angelina Porter was his mother's equal in every respect, and that she need not "take on such airs" and make such a fuss, because the former's father kept "a low groggery," as she termed it, when she knew that her own father (that was his own maternal grandfather) made all his money at the same business; "and you know, mother," he added, "grandfather was not a bit superior in any respect to Joe Porter, though you so affect to despise the latter."

"You know you are saying what is not only false, but also insulting to your own mother," she answered; and now she was weeping bitterly. "I knew you had become low in your aims since you had associated with the set you now think so much of, but I did not think you had become so abandoned as to scandalize your own dead grandfather."

"But, mother, you forget you are scandalizing one who is nearer to me than grandfather was to you, and that you sent her a low, scurrilous letter, full of bitter taunts and insults, which you intended should annoy her."

"If she gets you," his mother answered, with a sneer, "I guess she'll forget it. I want to inform you," she added, and she had reserved this broadside for her final effort, "if you marry that low creature I'll disown you, and I know your father will cut you off with a shilling, and let you go to her and her low, drunken sot of a father to find a living."

"You and father can do as you please and so shall I," he almost savagely retorted; "but dad had better sweep his own doorstep before he complains about his neighbor's being dirty, for he is not very select in his own company; and if he does not keep a groggery, those which are kept in this town have few more attentive customers. I only know of one who can claim to excel him in this respect, and that is he whom you have, by your schemes, almost compelled poor Lou to accept as her affianced husband. I mean that distinguished member of the bloatocracy, Stanley Ginsling. Consistency is a jewel, mother, you know and if you are consistent, you will not come down on me for marrying one whose father you term 'a sot,' and at the same time scheme to ally your daughter to one who is a perambulating whiskey barrel."

Mrs. Sealy did not try to answer her son; she felt, in fact, if she were to attempt it, she could not possibly do justice to the subject; so she gave him what she intended for a withering look, gathered up the skirts of her dress, and swept majestically from the room.

That evening she had a long consultation with her husband in regard to the matter, the result of which was a very stormy interview between the father and son, when the latter, having been threatened with disinheritance if he did not break off from all association with the Porter family, gave the father to understand as it was a matter that more especially concerned himself, he should observe his own mind in regard to it, and his father might dispose of his property as it pleased him.

The climax was reached when the residents of Bay View—for that was the name of their villa—heard that John, jun., and Angelina Porter were married. He had, in fact, the license in his pocket at the time he held his interview with his father, and had gone directly after to the groggery of his intended father-in-law, and having secured the services of the Rev. John Turnwell, the ceremony was privately performed.