"Oh, mother! I'm heartbroke," at last burst out from the poor girl's lips: "to think of our Jim, so kind, so good, 'ticed away by that miserable drink, and gone nobody knows where."

"Hush! Hush! Child, ye mustn't fret; I've faith to believe as the Lord 'll not forsake us: He'll bring our Jim back again: He'll hear a mother's prayer: He'll—"

But here a sudden sound of uneven footsteps made the poor widow start to her feet, and Sally to cry out. The next moment the door was rudely shaken, and then Jim staggered into the room, haggard, blear-eyed, muttering to himself savagely. The sight of his mother and sister seemed partially to sober him, for the spirit within him bowed instinctively before the beauty of holiness, which neither poverty nor terror could obliterate from the face of those whom he used to love so dearly. But the spell was soon broken.

"I say," he exclaimed, "what's to do here? I want my supper; I haven't scarce tasted to-day, and nobody cares for me no more nor a dog. I say, mother, stir yourself, and get me my supper." He flung himself into a chair, with an oath, as he almost lost his balance.

Oh! Misery! Misery! Every word was a separate stab, but Mrs Forbes restrained herself.

"Jim, dear," she said, soothingly, "we've nothing in the house for supper: we didn't expect you: we hoped you'd gone back to your master's."

"Ah! There it is! Didn't expect me! No supper! This is all I'm to get after spending all my wages on them as don't care to give me a mouthful of meat and a drop of drink when I want 'em!"

"Jim! Jim! Don't," exclaimed his poor sister, "oh! Don't! For the Lord's sake! You'll repent it bitterly by-and-by! Oh! It can't be our dear, kind Jim, as God sent to help and comfort us! We'd give you meat and drink, if we had them, but the last crumb's gone, and mother's never bitten to-day!"

"Nonsense! Don't tell me! None of your humbug and cant with me! If I can't get supper where I ought, I'll get it where I can! I'll not darken this door again as sure as my name's Jim Forbes!"

With a scowl, and a curse, and a slam of the door that startled the little ones from their sleep, the miserable son flung himself out of his home. The next day he enlisted; the day following he was gone altogether.

Weep! Weep! Ye holy angels! Howl with savage glee, ye mocking fiends! See what the drink can do! And yet, O wondrous strange! There are thinking men, loving men, Christian men, who tell us we are wrong, we are mad in trying to pluck the intoxicating cup away from men and women, and to keep it wholly out of the hands of little children and upgrowing boys and girls. Mad are we? Be it so; but there's method, there's holy love, there's heavenly wisdom in our madness.

A month had passed away, but no tidings of Jim Forbes; no letter telling of penitence or love. Oh! If he would only write: only just a word: only to say, "Mother, sister, I love you still." But no; hearts must wither, hearts must break, as the idol car of intemperance holds on its way, crushing out life temporal and eternal from thousands and tens of thousands who throw themselves madly under its wheels. But must it be so for ever?—No! It cannot, it shall not be, God helping us; for their rises up a cry to heaven against the unholy traffic in strong drink; a cry that must be heard.

The snow was falling fast, but not faster nor more softly than the tears of the widowed mother and the crippled daughter, as they bowed themselves down before the cold bars, which ought to have enclosed a mass of glowing coals on that pitiless December day; but only a dull red spark or two, amid a heap of dust, just twinkled in the grate, and seemed to mock their wretchedness. Cold! Cold! Everything was cold there but faith and love. Food there was none! But on the little table lay the open Bible; and just beneath those weary, swollen eyes, were the words, "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them nor any heat; for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and lead them to living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." But what were those voices? Were they the voices of angels? Poor, shivering, weary watchers! They might almost seem so to you. Anyhow, they were very gentle, loving voices; and now they ask admittance. Mrs Franklin and Mary entered; and, though not angels, they were come to do angels' work, as messengers of love and mercy. Tea, and bread and butter, and eggs, and divers other comforts came suddenly to light from under the wide folds of the ladies' cloaks, and then the visitors sat down, and stopped the outburst of tearful thanks by bright loving words of pity and interest.

"Oh, ma'am! It is true, but I never knowed afore how true it was that God will never forsake His own. I'd well nigh given up all for lost."

"Nay, mother," said Sally; "it wasn't you, it was me; your faith held out still."

"I was very, very sorry to hear of your troubles," said Mrs Franklin after a pause; "but you mustn't despair; God will bring your poor son back again."

"Oh! I believe it, ma'am, but it is hard not to doubt when one's cold and hunger-bitten; he was such a good lad to us afore he took to that miserable drink."

"Well, we must pray for him, and I daresay Mr and Mrs Rothwell will stand your friends."

"Friends! Ma'am," cried the poor woman; "oh! You don't know, ma'am; look, ma'am, at yon empty cupboard; there ought to be meat and drink there, ma'am, and earned by honest labour. It is not an hour, ma'am, since I was up at 'The Firs,' taking back some work as my poor Sally did for the young ladies (she's a beautiful sewer, is our Sally, there's none to match her in all Hopeworth), and I'd a fortnight's charing as I was owed for. I'd left the little ones with a kind neighbour, so I went up to the house and asked to see the missus: she couldn't see me, but I begged hard; and they showed me up into the drawing-room. Mrs Rothwell was lying on a 'sofy,' and there was wine on a table close by, and the young ladies was all crowding round the fire, contradicting their mother, and quarrelling with one another. 'Oh! For goodness' sake don't interrupt us,' says one of the young ladies, and their mamma bids me sit down; and there I sat for a long time, till Miss Jane had finished a fairy tale; something about a young lady as was shut up in a castle to be eaten by a giant; and how a young gentleman fell in love with her, and got a fairy to turn her into a bird, and get her out of the castle: and they all cried over the story as if their hearts would break, and when it was over they all had some wine; and Mrs Rothwell, who had been crying very much too, asked me what I wanted. So I told her as I'd come to my last penny, and I should be very thankful if she'd be so good as to pay me for my work, and for what our Sally had been doing for the young ladies. Then she fired up at once, and told me she thought it very impertinent in me coming and teasing her in that way, as she meant to pay me as soon as it was convenient; and oh! Ma'am! Then she asked me what I wanted for Sally's work; and when I told her, she said I charged too much, though I didn't ask above half as they'd ask for it in Hopeworth; and then she nearly cut my heart in two by saying (Oh, ma'am! I can't scarce bear to repeat it), that I shouldn't have come to pester her if it hadn't been for my idle vagabond of a son (them was the very words she used, ma'am), as had run away and left his place. Oh, Mrs Franklin! You're a mother; you know how I must feel for my poor wanderer, for he's my own flesh and blood still. I dursn't speak; I couldn't stay; and I've come back penniless as I went: but the Lord has sent you to help me, and I'll never doubt Him again."

"Never do," said her visitor; "I'll find you and Sally work for the present, and try and think charitably of Mrs Rothwell; she may mean more kindly than she has spoken."

"Mean kindly! Oh! Dear Mrs Franklin! The drink has washed out all kindness: there's ruin hanging over that house, not as I wishes it to them, but it is so. The children's been brought up to think of just nothing but themselves; their eating and drinking, and dressing, and playing: there's sipping in the parlour all day long; drinking in the dining-room; swilling in the kitchen. Our poor Jim's seen his betters there living as if men, women, and children had nothing to do in this world but to drown the thoughts of the next in drink and pleasure, and he's learnt his lesson too well; but I trust the Lord 'll take the book out of his hand, and teach him the better way again."

"I'm afraid what you say is too true," remarked Mrs Franklin, sadly; "if our young people continue to be brought up in such self-indulgent habits, we may well expect to hear God crying aloud by His judgments, 'Woe to the drunkards of England,' as He once cried, 'Woe to the drunkards of Ephraim.'"



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A DOUBLE PERIL.

"I'll tell you what it is, Mark, I must have a stop put to this: my patience is quite worn out. Do you think I'm made of money? Do you think I can coin money as fast as you choose to spend it? You'll ruin me with your thoughtless, selfish extravagance, and break your mother's heart and mine by your drunkenness and folly, that you will."

These words, uttered in a tone of passionate bitterness, were spoken by Mr Rothwell to his son in the hall at "The Firs," as the young man was urging his father to grant him a considerable sum to pay some pressing debts. At the same moment Mr John Randolph came out of the drawing- room, and could not help overhearing what was being said.

Mr Rothwell turned fiercely upon him:

"What right have you, sir, to be intruding on my privacy?" he cried, nettled at his rebuke having been overheard by a stranger.

"I am not conscious of being guilty of any intrusion," said the other quietly.

"You are intruding," cried Mark, glad to vent his exasperation at his father's reproaches on somebody, and specially glad of an opportunity of doing so on the music-master.

"You shall not need to make the complaint again then," said Mr Randolph, calmly, "my lessons to your sisters will cease from to-day;" and with a stiff bow he closed the door behind him.

Rather more than two years had elapsed since Jim Forbes' enlistment when the scene just described took place. Mark had been sinking deeper and deeper in the mire; he was scarcely ever sober except when visiting the Franklins, on which occasions he was always on his guard, though his excited manner, and the eagerness with which he tossed down the few glasses of wine to which he, evidently with difficulty, restricted himself, made a most painful impression not only on Mrs Franklin, but also on her daughter.

Mary was now nineteen, and shone with the brightness which the gentle light of holiness casts on every word and feature. She was full of innocent cheerfulness, and was the joy of all who knew her. Mark loved her as much as he could love anything that was not himself, and tried to make himself acceptable to her. Mary hoped the best about him, but that hope had begun to droop for some time past. He had never yet ventured to declare his affection to her; somehow or other he could not. A little spark of nobleness still remained in him unquenched by the drink, and it lighted him to see that to bind Mary to himself for life would be to tie her to a living firebrand that would scorch and shrivel up beauty, health and peace. He dared not speak: before her unsullied loveliness his drink-envenomed lips were closed: he could rattle on in wild exuberance of spirits, but he could not yet venture to ask her to be his. And she? She pitied him deeply, and her heart's affections hovered over him; would they settle there? If so, lost! Lost! All peace would be lost: how great her peril!

Another visit from Mr Tankardew: the old man had been a frequent caller, and was ever welcome. That he cherished a fatherly love for Mary was evident; indeed his heart seemed divided between herself and the young musician, Mr John Randolph, who, though he had ceased to give lessons at "The Firs," was most scrupulously punctual in his attendance at "The Shrubbery."

It was a bright summer's morning as the old man sat in the drawing-room where Mary and her mother were engaged in the mysteries of the needle.

"Let me hear your last piece, my child," he said; "John tells me that he will soon have nothing more to teach you."

Mary sat down and played with loving grace, till the old man bowed his head upon his hands and wept.

"'Home, sweet home!'" he murmured. "Ay; you have played that lovely air with variations as if you felt it: you know what a sweet home is, Mary; I knew it once. 'Home, sweet home!'" he added again, with a sigh.

There was a pause: then he went on: "There are plenty of homes that aren't sweet; homes with variations enough and to spare in them; but they're variations of misery. I hope you'll never have one of those homes, my child."

Mary coloured deeply, and her mother's eyes filled with tears. Mr Tankardew looked earnestly at them both.

"No danger of any but sweet variations here," he said; "but all new homes are not sweet homes—there's no sweetness that will last where the barrel, the bottle, and the spirit-flask play a trio of discords: they'll drown all the harmonies of harp and piano. Promise me two things, my child;" he added, abruptly.

"What are they?" asked Mary, timidly and tearfully.

"Just these: promise me to become a pledged abstainer; and promise me that you'll never marry a man that loves the drink."

Poor Mary burst into tears, but her mother came to her aid, and said:

"I don't quite see what good Mary's signing the pledge will do. She has taken neither beer nor wine for some time past, so that she does all that is needed in the way of example."

"No, she does not, madam, if you'll excuse my being so blunt. She just does not do what will make her example tell. Power for good comes through combination; the devil knows it well enough, and he gets drunkards to band together in clubs; and worldly people band together in clubs, and back one another up and concentrate their forces. All who see the curse and misery of the drink should sign, and not stand apart as solitary abstainers; they won't do the same good; it is by uniting together that the great work is done by God's blessing. A body of Christian abstainers united in the same work, and bound by the same pledge, attract others, and give them something to lean on and cling to: and that is one reason why we want children to combine in Bands of Hope. Why, I've seen a man light a fire with a piece of glass, but how did he do it? Not by putting the fuel under one ray of the sun; not by carrying it about from place to place in the sunshine; but by gathering, with the help of the glass, all the little rays together into one hot bright focus. And so we want to gather together the power and influence of total abstainers in Total Abstinence Societies and Bands of Hope, by their union through the pledge as a common bond. We want to set hearts on fire with a holy love that shall make them burn to rescue poor slaves of the drink from their misery and ruin. Won't you help? Can you hold back? Are not souls perishing by millions through the drink, and is any sacrifice too dear to make, any cross too heavy to take up in such a cause?"

The old man had risen, and was walking up and down the room with great swinging strides. Then he stopped abruptly and waited for an answer.

"I'm sure," said Mrs Franklin, "we would both sign if it could do any real good."

"It will do good, it must do good: sign now;" he produced a pledge- book: "no time like the present."

The signatures were made, and then Mr Tankardew, clasping his thin hands together, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, offered a short emphatic prayer that God would bless and strengthen these His servants, and enable them by His grace to be a blessing to others as pledged abstainers. And then he turned again to Mary, and said:

"You have given me the one promise; will you give me the other? Will you promise me that you will never knowingly marry a man who loves the drink?"

Mary buried her face in her hands. A few moments, and no one spoke.

"Hear me, my child," cried the old man, again beginning to pace the room with measured strides; "you are dear to me, very dear, for you're the image of one lost to me years ago, long weary years ago. I cannot bear to see you offered as another victim on the altar of the Drink-Moloch: he has had victims enough: too many, too many. Do you wish to wither into a premature grave? Do you wish to see the light die out of your mother's smile? Then marry a drink-worshipper. Do you wish to tremble every time you hear the footstep of the man who has turned 'sweet home' into a shuddering prison? then marry a drink-worshipper. Do you wish to see little children hide the terror of their eyes in your lap and tremble at the name of father? Then marry a drink-worshipper. Stay, stay, I'm an old fool to break out in this way, and scare you out of your wits;" for Mary and her mother were both sobbing bitterly: "forgive me, but don't forget me; there, let us change the subject."

But Mary had checked her sobs, and, rising up calm and beautiful in her tears, she laid her hand lovingly on the old man's arm, and said, gently but firmly:

"Dear old friend, thank you for what you have said. I promise you that never will I knowingly marry one who loves intoxicating drinks."

"God bless you, my child. You have taken a load off the old man's heart, and off your mother's too, I know."

Would Mary keep her word? She was soon to be put to the test. Though Mark hesitated to propose to Mary Franklin, his mother had no scruples on the subject. He had now come to man's estate, and she wished him to marry; specially she wished him to marry Mrs Franklin's daughter, as Mary would enjoy a nice little income when she came of age, and Mark's prospects were cloudy enough as far as anything from his father was concerned. Besides, she hoped that marrying Mary would steady her son— a favourite scheme with mothers of drunkards. As for Mary's own peace or happiness, she never gave them a thought. The experiment would be something like caging a tiger and a lamb together for the purpose of subduing the tiger's ferocity; pleasant enough for the tiger, but simply destruction to the lamb. However, Mrs Rothwell pressed Mark to propose, so he yielded after a faint resistance, and now watched for his opportunity.

It was a sweet July evening: the sun was near his setting, and was casting long shadows across the lawn at the back of "The Shrubbery." Mrs Franklin was sitting on a garden seat reading, her attention divided between her book and the glowing tints of a bed of flowers all ablaze with variegated beauty. A little shaded walk turned off near this seat into the kitchen garden, which was separated from the flower garden in this quarter by a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran a trout stream. The ravine was crossed by a rustic bridge. Mr John Randolph had been calling at the house with some music, and, being now looked upon more in the light of a friend than an instructor, had the privilege of making a short cut to the turnpike road over this foot bridge and through the kitchen garden. Mark Rothwell also usually availed himself of this more direct approach to the house. On the present occasion the two young men met in the kitchen garden, and passed each other by without recognition, Mark hurrying forward to make his proposal, his already intense excitement inflamed by strong drink, which he had taken with less caution than on his ordinary visits to "The Shrubbery"; John Randolph lingering on his way in a somewhat discontented mood, which was not improved by the sight of Mark. Suddenly the stillness was broken by a loud scream and cry for help: it was Mary Franklin's voice. Both the young men rushed towards the bridge, and beheld a sight which filled them with dismay. Mary had strolled from her mother's side to the little foot bridge, and, filled with sorrowful thoughts, leant against the rustic parapet. The woodwork, which was inwardly decayed, gave way beneath her weight; she tried to recover herself but in vain, and fell over the side of the bridge, still, however, managing to keep herself from plunging into the stream by clinging to a creaking fragment of the broken rails. Her dress also helped to stay her up, having become entangled with the woodwork. Mark reached the bridge first, but was so confused by drink and excitement that he scarcely knew what he was doing, when he felt himself flung aside by the strong arm of John Randolph, who sprang forward, and stooping down endeavoured to raise the poor terrified girl, but for a few moments without success: indeed his own strength began to fail, and it seemed as if both must be precipitated into the stream, if assistance had not come from another quarter. The gardener hearing the cries hurried up, and, lending his powerful help, Mary was delivered from her peril, and was carried, fainting and bruised, into the house by her two rescuers, before Mark Rothwell had fairly recovered himself from the fall which John Randolph had given him in his haste. But now, boiling with wrath and vexation, Mark made his way to the front door, and disregarding in the blindness of his passion the sight of Mary just recovering consciousness, and of Mrs Franklin who was bending over her in mingled grief and thankfulness, he turned furiously upon John, who was just retiring, and shaking his fist in his face, cried out:

"How dare you interfere with me, sir? I'll not put up with this insolence from my sisters' discarded music-master."

The face of the other flushed crimson for a moment, then with unruffled voice he replied:

"Better, Mr Mark, to be a master of music and of one's self, than a slave of the drink. I wish you good evening."



CHAPTER NINE.

THE CRISIS.

Several weeks had passed by after the accident and timely rescue, weeks of anxious watching and tender nursing, before Mary Franklin was sufficiently recovered from the shock and injuries she had received to appear again among her friends. Many had been the inquiries made by Mark and Mr Tankardew, and once or twice by John Randolph.

It was on a calm Sabbath morning that mother and daughter first walked beyond their own grounds, and made their way to the little village church. Public thanks were offered that day for Mary's wonderful preservation, and many a loving eye looked through tears at the pale, serene face of her who had been so mercifully rescued. Was Mark Rothwell there?—no; but there was one who could not help gazing for a few moments, with a deeper sentiment than admiring pity, at the fair young girl, as the words of holy praise "for the late mercies vouchsafed unto her" were uttered by the minister: it was John Randolph. They met after service at the gate of the churchyard, and the young man having expressed his heartfelt congratulations, after a moment's hesitation offered Mary his arm, which she gently declined. A slight shade of mingled shame, sadness, and annoyance clouded his face for a moment, and as quickly passed away. Mary was struggling to say something to him expressive of her gratitude, but before she could put it into shape he was gone.

The next day brought Mr Tankardew to "The Shrubbery." The old man drew Mary to him in the fulness of his heart, and blessed her, calling her his child. "Well, what have the doctors made of you?" he asked, rather abruptly.

"Made of me?" asked Mary, laughing.

"Yes, made of you, they never could make anything of me or by me; but what have they made of you?"

"You puzzle me," replied the other.

"Did they put labels on all their physic bottles?"

"My dear sir," interposed Mrs Franklin, "I'm thankful to say that our doctor has prescribed little else than rest and tonics."

"And were the tonics labelled?"

"Oh! I understand you now. Mary has not broken her pledge, she would take no wine."

"Excellent girl! Of course she was ordered wine?"

"Oh! Yes; and ale or porter too. The doctor almost insisted on it."

"Of course he did; they always do. Ah! Well! Brave girl! You said no."

"Yes, I felt convinced that I should do as well without beer or wine, and I have had no cause to regret that I did not take them."

"Bravo! You'll never regret it. You must help us to fight the doctors: they mean well, some of them; but most of them are building up the palace of intemperance faster than we can pull it down. 'The doctor ordered it;' that's an excuse with thousands to drown their souls in drink. I wonder if they'd swallow a shovelful of red hot coals if the doctor ordered it?"

Summer had now given place to autumn; it was a bright September day when the above conversation took place. When Mr Tankardew rose to go, Mrs Franklin and Mary volunteered to accompany him a little way. So they went forth, and a sweet and pleasant sight it was, the hale, grey-haired veteran still full of fire, yet checking his steps to keep pace with the young girl's feebler tread: she, all gentleness and sober gladness, and her mother happy in the abiding trust of a believing heart.

They passed out of the grounds across a lane thickly shaded by trees, whose foliage was beginning to change its summer hue for the gorgeous varieties of autumnal colouring. Then they followed a winding path that skirted a wide sea of wheat, which rose and fell in rustling waves, disclosing now and again bright dazzling gleams of the scarlet poppy. At the end of this field was a stile leading into the highroad to Hopeworth. Here they paused, and were just about to part, when the sound of a horse's feet in rapid but very irregular motion arrested their attention. The animal and his rider soon came into view, the latter evidently keeping his seat with difficulty. There was plainly a struggle of some kind going on between the brute and the rational being who was mounted on him, and while drawing the reins tight with one hand, was belabouring the poor creature about the head most unmercifully with a heavy hunting whip. The horse not appreciating the advantages of this treatment at the hands of its intellectual owner, was resisting by a shuffling, remonstrating sort of gallop; while his rider, who was evidently a practised horseman, seemed to stick to his saddle by a kind of instinct, having little else to guide him, for his hat was completely shaken down over his eyes.

Mr Tankardew's indignation was kindled in a moment.

"The wretch! The drunken beast!" he cried; "serve him right if his horse pitches him head foremost into the first ditch with any dirty water in it."

On came the contending pair, the man swaying from side to side, but nevertheless marvellously retaining his seat. At the sight of the ladies, or at a sudden movement forward of Mr Tankardew, the animal swerved and almost unseated his tormentor, who, however, recovered himself, but in doing so lost his hat, as the poor beast again plunged forward with his almost unconscious burden. The horseman took no notice of his loss, nor did he see who were the spectators of his sinful degradation, but to them he was fully revealed: it was Mark Rothwell. Another minute and he was out of sight.

Mary sank, with a bitter cry, into her mother's arms, while Mr Tankardew sprang forward to support them both. In a moment or two, however, the ladies had recovered themselves, and turned homewards. The old man saw that they would prefer to be alone, so, with a kind and courteous farewell, he made his way with slow strides towards the town.

"Humph!" he muttered to himself; "'Good entertainment for man and beast,' that's what they put over some of these alcohol shops. I'd like to know which was the beast just now. Entertainment! Ay, very entertaining, such a sight to the devil and his angels. O miserable drink! Haven't you drowned souls enough yet?"

Two days after this disgraceful exposure of himself, Mark Rothwell made an early call at "The Shrubbery." He was utterly ignorant of his having been seen in his drunkenness by Mrs Franklin and her daughter, and was scrupulously sober on the present occasion, and full of good resolutions, as habitual drunkards very commonly are after an outbreak of more than usual violence. He was quite convinced—at least he was enjoying a good deal of cheerful self-congratulation on the supposed conviction—that he never would exceed again; so in the strength of this conviction, he entered the room where Mary and her mother were sitting, with a confident step, though he could not quite keep down every feeling of misgiving. Still, it never occurred to him that Mary could possibly refuse him. He had too high an opinion of himself: he was such a general favourite and so popular, that he felt sure any young lady of his acquaintance would esteem herself honoured by the offer of his hand. He was well aware, it is true, that Mary had a horror of drunkenness; but he flattered himself, first, that he could persuade her that he meant to be sober for the future, and a total abstainer too if she required it; and then, that he had got a sufficient hold upon her heart, or at any rate regard, to make her willing to accept him without any stipulations rather than lose him. Strong in these impressions, he had now come over to make a formal proposal. The manner, however, of mother and daughter disturbed him; something he saw was amiss; there was a sadness and constraint in the words of both which distressed and embarrassed him. After a brief conversation on commonplace topics Mary rose hastily and left the room. Mark hesitated, but feeling that he must seize the opportunity, he at once asked Mrs Franklin's permission to avow his attachment to her daughter.

A long and painful pause: broken, at last, by Mrs Franklin's reply, that she could not advise her daughter to encourage his addresses.

Mark was thunderstruck! For several minutes surprise and mortification kept him silent. At last he exclaimed:

"But what does Mary wish herself? We've known each other so long; she knows I love her, she must know it. I'm sure she would not refuse me; may I not see her? May I not have 'yes,' or 'no,' from her own lips?"

"I will ask her," was the reply; and poor Mark was left for half an hour to his own not very agreeable reflections. At the end of that time Mrs Franklin returned, with a sealed letter in her hand.

"Mary does not feel equal to seeing you now," she said, "and indeed I could not recommend her doing so at present. She sends you this letter instead; do not read it now," for Mark was tearing it open, "but wait till you can give it your calm and full attention."

Mark would have remonstrated, but Mrs Franklin's quiet decision restrained him; he flung himself out of the house, and on reaching the highway, burst open the envelope and read as follows:—

"Dear Mark,—We have always been friends, and I hope shall remain so; but we can never be anything more to one another. I have solemnly resolved in God's sight that I will never marry a drunkard, and I never will. I was witness to your ill-usage of your poor horse the other day, when you were intoxicated; I cannot forget it; my mind is made up, I cannot alter it, and my dear mother entirely approves of my decision. I thank you for your offer, and pray that you may have grace given you to forsake the sin which has made it impossible that there can ever be more than a feeling of sincere interest and kindliness towards yourself, from yours truly,—

"Mary Franklin."

Mark Rothwell tore the letter, when he had glanced through it, into bits, dashed them on the ground, and, with loud imprecations, stamped on them. There was a fire in his heart, a mad desire for revenge; he was, what drunkards must be, essentially selfish. Wounded vanity, disappointed affection, bitter jealousy, were the fuel to that fire. He had no thought now of remonstrance with Mary: he had no wish to remonstrate: his one great burning desire was to be revenged. He rushed home, but found little to cheer him there. For months past a cloud had hung over "The Firs," which had become denser and darker every day. And now it was come abroad that Mr Rothwell was bankrupt. It was too true: the reckless expenditure of Mark, and the incautious good nature of Mr Rothwell, which had led him, under the influence of free living, to engage in disastrous speculations, had brought ruin on the miserable family. A few more weeks and "The Firs" was untenanted.

But, in the midst of all this darkness, there shone forth a ray of heavenly light.

It was near midnight of the day when the sale of Mr Rothwell's effects had taken place at "The Firs." A candle twinkled still in the cottage of Mrs Forbes, for there was work to be sent home early on the morrow, and neither lateness nor weariness might suspend their anxious toil. Lame Sally and her mother had been talking over, what was in everyone's mouth and thoughts, the sad downfall of the Rothwells. They saw God's hand in it, but they did not rejoice; they had found their Saviour true to His word, and enjoyed a peace in casting their care on Him which they knew all the wealth of the world could not have given them. Only one thing they still prayed for which the Lord had not yet granted: Jim, poor Jim! But what was that? A footstep: how their hearts beat! Could it be the old familiar tread? Yes; Jim, but no longer drunken, gambling, prodigal Jim, was next moment at his mother's feet, and a minute after with his arms round his sister's neck. And there was weeping, but not for sorrow, in that cottage, and there was joy before the angels of heaven over a repentant sinner. Jim was come back. A mother's and sister's prayers had reached him and drawn him home. He was sober now: he was a pledged abstainer: he had brought his pay in his hand and love in his heart; and that night, while the shadows lay thick around the deserted mansion of "The Firs," and not even the wail of sorrow broke the stillness, there was light and music and peace in that humble cottage; the light of love, the music of thanksgiving, and "the peace of God which passeth understanding."



CHAPTER TEN.

DESPERATE DOINGS.

It is not to be supposed that Mary Franklin could mourn very deeply the departure of Mark Rothwell. Recent events had worn out the old impressions of tenderness. All that was bright and attractive in Mark had melted away before the scorching, withering flame of alcohol. She had heard his cruel taunts to her preserver on the evening of her rescue; she had seen him shamefully intoxicated when ill-using his poor horse. Could she cherish love or tenderness for such a being as this? Impossible! She was thankful to forget him. O misery! Why do so many of the good and noble frown upon those who would keep the intoxicating cup altogether out of the hands of the young? What do the young lose by never tasting it? Not health, not cheerfulness, not self-respect, not self-control. No! And what do they gain by tasting? Too often, habits of ruinous self-indulgence; too often a thirst which grows with years; too often a withered manhood or womanhood, and a decrepit and dishonoured old age.

October was drawing to its close: nothing had been heard of the Rothwells, and their old dwelling was now occupied by another tenant. John Randolph's visits to "The Shrubbery" began to be more frequent, and were certainly not unacceptable. Gratitude to him for her rescue forbade Mary's repelling him; and, indeed, the more she and her mother came to know him, the more they learnt to value his manly and Christian character. They began likewise to perceive that he was more than he seemed to be. Mr Tankardew had given them to understand latterly that he was their equal both in birth and fortune. A mystery there was about him, it was true; but the veil was now getting so thin that they could both see pretty distinctly through it, but were content to wait for the proper time of its withdrawal. And so it was felt by all that, in time, John Randolph and Mary Franklin would be drawn together by a closer bond than that of esteem and respect, but no one as yet gave outspoken expression to this conviction.

Things were thus hanging in no unpleasing suspense, when, in the twilight of an October evening, two men of rather suspicious appearance might have been seen climbing the paling fence at the back of "The Shrubbery." Scarcely had one of them reached the top, when a third person approached, at first hastily; then he suddenly checked himself, and cautiously crept along, so as to keep himself out of the sight of the two others who were climbing into the grounds. This third person was John Randolph, who had lately left "The Shrubbery," and had come round by the road at the back, to call, by Mrs Franklin's request, on a poor sick cottager in the village. The road in this part was lonely, and the trespassers evidently imagined themselves unobserved. The first who scaled the palings was a stoutish, middle-aged man: but who was the other? Randolph's heart beat violently with a terrible suspicion. Did he know this second figure? He could not be quite sure, for he was afraid to approach too near; but he was almost convinced that he had seen him before. When fairly over the fence, both men crept along as quietly as possible under the shelter of a large bank of evergreens. He who had climbed over last led the way, and was plainly well acquainted with the grounds; he was a much younger man than his companion, and seemed scarcely sober, yet without having lost self-possession and the knowledge of what he was doing. John waited till they were fairly out of hearing, and then himself rapidly and noiselessly followed them towards the house under cover of the laurels. It was now getting very dusk, but he could manage to track them till they had reached some outhouses, along the wall of which they crawled, crouching down. And now they had arrived at the rear of the house, and stood in shadow opposite a back passage window. Randolph crept silently up and squeezed himself behind a huge water-butt, where he was perfectly concealed, and could overhear part of the conversation now hurriedly held between the two burglars, if such they were.

"You're sure the man does not sleep in the house?" asked the elder man.

"Sure," replied the second, in a husky whisper. John Randolph felt pretty certain that he knew the voice, but he hardly dared think it.

"Where's the plate chest?"

"Don't know: most likely in the pantry."

John was now confident that he knew the speaker.

"Hush!" whispered the elder man, fiercely, "this passage window 'll do: it won't take much to prise it open: you'll look after the women."

"Trust me for that," muttered the other; and Randolph thought he heard a click, as of the cocking of a pistol.

"Hush, you fool!" growled the older burglar, with an oath: then there was a few moments' silence, and the two crept back. They sat down under the shelter of some large shrubs, with their backs to John, who could only just make them out from his hiding-place, for it was now getting quite dark. A little while, and they rose, and passed very near their unsuspected watcher, who could just catch the words "Two o'clock," as they made their way back to the fence. A few moments more, and they were clear of the grounds.

John Randolph's mind was made up in a moment what to do. Having cautiously followed the two men into the road, and ascertained that they were not lurking anywhere about "The Shrubbery," he hurried off at once to Hopeworth, and communicated what he had seen and heard to the police. He was very anxious that no unnecessary alarm should be given to Mrs Franklin or Mary, and that they should be kept, if possible, in ignorance of the whole matter till the danger was over; so he resolved to accompany the constables, who, with the superintendent, were preparing to encounter the housebreakers. It was presumed, from what he had overheard, that an attempt was to be made on "The Shrubbery" that very night, and that the two men seen by John Randolph were only part of a larger gang. Help was therefore procured, and about one o'clock a party of a dozen, including John, all disguised in labourers' clothes, had noiselessly scaled the fence in different parts by two and two, and, recognising one another by a password previously agreed upon, were soon clustered together under some dense shrubs not far from the passage window before mentioned. It was a tranquil morning, but very cloudy. All was deep stillness in the house. Little did Mrs Franklin and her daughter think, as they read together before parting for the night those comforting words, "The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them," that such foes and such protectors were so close at hand. But they laid them down in perfect peace, and their heavenly Father's loving power was as a wall of fire about them. Patiently did the watchers listen from their hiding-place to every sound. Two o'clock, at last, rang out clear from the great timepiece on the stairs; they could hear it distinctly outside. What was that sound? Only the distant barking of a fox. But now there are other sounds. One, two, three, at length six men in all have crept to the part of the yard opposite the back door. All paused and looked carefully round: everything seemed safe.

"Well," said one who appeared to be a leader, "it does not seem as if we need be over particular: there's neither dog nor man about, and the women won't do much. Where's the crowbar?"

"Here."

Just at this moment a bright ray of light flashed out along the passage, and a female figure could be seen crossing the landing. The housebreakers shrunk back.

"It will not do," said the leader, half aloud; "they've got scent of us somehow: pr'aps they've some men inside to help them, we'd better be off."

"Fools! Cowards!" exclaimed a younger man, in a fierce whisper, as the others began to slink away; "are you afraid of a parcel of women? But I'll not be baffled: she's there:" and he raised a pistol, and pointed it towards the figure which had descended close to the passage window with the light in her hand, and was trying to peer into the darkness outside. His companion pulled down his arm with a savage imprecation. All was still for a few minutes, and the female retired to the landing and then disappeared. The burglars hesitated, when, just at the moment of their indecision, one of the police imitated the low growling of a dog close at hand. Instantly the whole gang took to their heels, closely followed by the constables. No shout had been raised, no word had been spoken, for John Randolph had been most anxious that the thieves should be captured without alarming the ladies. And now in the darkness, pursuers and pursued were scattered in different directions. John sprang after the young man who had raised the pistol, and succeeded in grappling with him before he could mount the fence. The clouds were now dispersed, and there was light enough for one to recognise another. Randolph could not doubt; the intended murderer was Mark Rothwell. Fiercely did the two young men strive together, and at last both fell, Mark undermost; and, relaxing his hold, John was rising to his feet, when the other drew a pistol, but before he could fire his adversary had turned it aside; it went off, wounding the unhappy young man who held it. Randolph drew back in dismay, hearing the injured man's involuntary groan, but in another instant Mark had drawn a second pistol and fired. The ball grazed the other's forehead, and he staggered back stupefied. When he recovered himself Mark had disappeared, and never from that night was heard of or seen in Hopeworth or its neighbourhood. Near the part of the fence where the scuffle took place were afterwards found marks of a horse's hoofs, and traces of blood. The miserable young man contrived to get clear away: the rest of the gang were all captured by the police.

The day after this adventure old Mr Tankardew and John Randolph paid a visit together to "The Shrubbery." Of course the wildest tales were in circulation, the central point in most being the murder of Mrs Franklin and her daughter. "I trust," said the old man to Mary and her mother, "that you have suffered nothing but a little fright. All's well that ends well, and I'm thankful that my young friend here was able to be of some service; you see, God can take care of His own."

"It has been so, indeed," replied Mrs Franklin; "Mary could not sleep, she cannot tell why; she felt restless and uneasy, and just about two o'clock she was crossing to my room, when she thought she heard some unusual sounds in the yard. She looked out of the passage window, but could see nothing; then she heard a sort of scuffle, and, after that, all was still; and, though we were rather alarmed, we heard nothing more. But this morning has brought us strange tidings, and I find that we are again indebted to our kind young friend here for help in time of need, and that, too, I fear, at his own imminent risk."

"Don't mention this," said the young man; "it has been a privilege to me to have been able to render this assistance. I am only too thankful that I was put in the way of discovering what might have otherwise been a very serious business. But we must see that you are better protected for the future."

"True, true, John," interrupted Mr Tankardew, smiling; "I see I must put in a word. My dear child, Miss Franklin seems more willing than able to speak just now. Yes; let me make a clean breast of it. Let me introduce our young friend in a new character, John Randolph Tankardew, my only son, my only surviving child." His voice trembled, and then he added, "He has twice been the protector of my dear adopted daughter, let me join their hands together as a pledge that he may shortly obtain a better title to be her protector while life shall last."

And so, placing the half-shrinking hand of Mary in the young man's stronger grasp, he held them together with a fervent blessing.

"And now," he added, as they sat in a loving group, too full of tearful peace to wish to break the charmed silence by hasty words, "now let me tell my story, and unravel the little tangle which has made me a mystery to my neighbours, and a burden to my friends. But all that is past; there are brighter days before us now."



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

MR. TANKARDEW'S STORY BEGUN.

"You must know, dear friends," began the old man sadly, "that I'm a wiser man now than I was once. Not that there's much wisdom to boast of now; only I have learnt by experience, and he is a sharp schoolmaster.

"I was born to trust others; it was misery to me to live in distrust and suspicion; I couldn't do it. People told me I was a fool; it was true, I knew it, but I went on trusting. David said in his haste, 'all men are liars.' I said in my haste, or rather my folly, 'all men are true.' They might lie to others, but I thought they couldn't, or wouldn't, or didn't lie to me. At any rate I'd trust them; it was so sad to think that a being made in God's image could go about wilfully deceiving others. I'd take a brighter view of my fellow-men and women. I never could abide your shrewd, knowing people, who seemed to be always living with a wink in their eyes, and a grin on their lips, as if they believed in nobody and nothing but their own sharpness. I loathed them, and I loathe them still. But I wasn't wise. I had to smart for it. I had plenty of money when I came of age, and I had plenty of friends, or rather acquaintances, who knew it. But I was shy, and not over fond of many companions; my weakness wasn't in that direction. I had sense enough to see through your common gold-hunters. I was never over fond of sugar-candy; coarse flattery made me sick, and I had no taste for patching up the holes in the purses of profligates and spendthrifts. I never was a worshipper of money, but I knew its value, and wasn't disposed to make ducks and drakes of it, nor partridges and pheasants either. So the summer flies, after buzzing about me a little, flew off to sunnier spots; all except one. He puzzled me a bit at first, but I blamed myself for having a shadow of suspicion of him. All seemed so open about him, open hands, open eyes, open brow; he wound himself round my heart before I knew where I was. Mine was a fair estate (it will be yours one day, Mary, my child, I trust; John's and yours together). I'd lived away from home many years before I came into it, for both my parents died while I was young, and when I came of age, my nearest relations were only distant. I never had brother nor sister. When I came to reside on my property the neighbours called, and I returned their calls, and it didn't go much beyond that. They thought me cold and unfeeling, but they were mistaken. But I must go back and take up my dropped thread. I said there was one man who got hold of my heart. I had a good stout fence of prejudices, and an inner paling of reserve about that heart of mine, but he contrived to climb over both, and get inside. I could have done anything for him, but he did not seem to want anything but my affection; so I thought. He had a sister: well, what shall I say? I'm a poor, weak, old fool; it is all past and gone now. I must go straight on; but it is like ploughing up my heart into a thousand deep furrows with my own hand. But; well, he had a sister; I'll not tell you her name, nor his either: at least not now. He brought her with him to call on me one day. She had never been in the neighbourhood before, for her brother was only a recent settler in the place. I was charmed with her; the more so because she was so like her brother, so bright and so open; so thoroughly transparent. She beamed upon me like a flood of sunshine, and gilded my cloudy reserve with her own radiance, so that I shone out myself in her company; so they told me, and I believed it. I was young then, you'll remember. I wasn't the wrinkled old pilgrim that I am now. We got attached to one another, it would seem, at once; others may fall in love; we leapt into it; I never thought to ask myself whether she loved God. I was content to know that she loved me. I was aware that I had a heart, but at that time I hadn't learnt that I had a soul. Well, my friend (shall I drop the 'r,' and call him 'fiend'? 'Twould be truer); he did all he could to hasten on our marriage. He did it very quietly, so openly, too. He was so radiant with joy at the thoughts of my coming happiness. 'She was such a sister,' he said, 'she would be such a wife to me.' I never had any misgivings but once, and then the shadow was but as the passing of a white cloud before summer's noonday sunshine. I was going from home for a week, but unexpected business detained me for another day. I walked over to my future brother-in-law's in the afternoon. It was summer time. I went in, as was my habit, by the garden door, and was crossing the lawn, when I heard sounds of wild laughter proceeding from a little summer-house; they were sounds of boisterous and almost idiotic mirth. There was a duet of merriment, in which a male and female each took a part. I hardly knew what I was doing, or whether to go back or advance. As I hesitated, all was hushed. I saw a female figure dart like lightning into the house, and then my friend (I must call him so for want of a better title) came forward, and holding out both his hands to me, said 'Welcome, welcome, this is an unexpected pleasure. I thought you were far away on your journey before now; my sister and I have been almost dying with laughter over a book lent to us by a friend. I do think I never read anything so irresistibly ludicrous in all my life.' I hardly knew what to say in reply, I was so completely taken aback. I was turning, however, towards the summer-house in which I just caught a glance of a table with a bottle and glasses on it, when my companion, catching my arm in his, hurried me away to another part of the garden, where, he said, he was going to make some improvements, about which he must have my judgment and suggestions. As we afterwards went into the house, we again passed the summer-house, but the glasses and bottle were gone. We entered into one of the sitting-rooms, and the servant came to tell us that her mistress had just been sent for to see a poor sick cottager, who wanted her immediately. This led her brother to break out into raptures about his sister's benevolence, self-denial, and charity! Indeed, I never heard him so eloquent on any subject before. I left, however, in a little while, for he seemed unnaturally restless and excited during my stay, and a cloud lowered upon me all the way home, but it had melted away by the next morning. But I must hasten on. We were married soon after this, and I settled a handsome allowance on my wife for her own private use. She had no parents living, but had kept house for another brother before she came to reside in our neighbourhood. I wished to suppose myself happy as a married man, but, somehow or other, I was not. My wife made large professions of affection, but, spite of myself, I mistrusted them. Her brother, too, seldom came now to see me, unless he had some private business with his sister; and they were often closeted together alone for an hour or more. Then she would come out to me, radiant with smiles, and full of excitement; and her brother would rattle on, hurrying from one topic to another, so as to leave me no power to collect my thoughts, or shape any questions which I was anxious to ask him. I am given to trust, as I have told you, and ever shall be, if I live to be a dozen centuries old. Still, I couldn't help having my doubts, my grievous doubts. Well, one morning, my brother-in-law called; he seemed agitated, and in much distress, saying that he must give up his house and join his brother, with whom he was in partnership; as he found his presence was required for the investigation, and, he feared it might be, the winding-up of their affairs. I pitied him, and offered him help. He refused it almost with indignation, but I pressed it, and he accepted a loan, merely as a loan, he said, of a thousand pounds, for which I gave him a cheque on the spot. With tears in his eyes, and a warm pressure of the hand, he was gone. I never saw him again. A few mornings after this; it was about six months after we were married; my wife and I were sitting at breakfast when she threw a paper to me across the table, saying, 'I suppose you'll see to that.' It was a bill for a considerable amount, contracted by herself before our marriage, and for articles which were certainly no part of a lady's toilet or wardrobe, nor could be of any possible use to one of her sex. I was astonished; but she treated the matter very coolly, or appeared to do so. When I asked for an explanation, she avoided my eye, and turned the matter off; and when I pressed her on the subject, she said, 'Well, it is no use my entering into explanations now; you'll find it all right.' I was greatly disturbed, for there was something in her manner that showed me she was ill at ease, though she endeavoured to wear a nonchalant air. There was a wild light, too, in her eyes, which distressed and almost alarmed me, and a suspicion came over me which almost made me faint. She left the breakfast table abruptly, and I saw no more of her till luncheon time; but when I went to my library, I found a packet on my table which I had not noticed there before. I opened it; it was full of unpaid bills, all made out to my wife in her maiden name, and most, indeed nearly all of them, for articles unsuited for female use. A horrible suspicion flashed across my mind. Could it possibly be that these were her brother's debts: that he had got these articles in her name, and had had the bills sent in to her? And could it be that brother and sister had been in league together, and that he with all his assumption of openness and candour and large-heartedness, had entrapped me into this marriage that I might liquidate the debts of an abandoned and reckless profligate? And could it be, farther, (madden ing thought!) that the whole extravagance was not his, and that numerous unpaid accounts for wine and spirits were, partly, for what she had taken as well as her brother? Then I thought of the scene in the garden, of the wild laughter, of her sudden disappearance, of the signs of drinking in the summer-house. Oh! My heart turned sick; was I tricked, deceived, ruined in my peace for ever? I paced up and down my library, more like a lunatic than a sane man. Luncheon time came: we met: she threw herself into my arms, and wept and laughed and implored; but I felt that a drunkard was embracing me, and I flung her from me, and rushed out of the house. O misery! Whither should I go, what should I do? It was all too true: her brother was the basest of men: she did love him, I believe, it was the only unselfish thing about her. Well, I had to go back home; home! Vilest of names to me then! 'home, bitter home!' And yet I loved that poor guilty, fallen creature. There was a terrible light in her eyes as we sat opposite one another at dinner. We had to play a part before the footman. Oh! What a dreadful meal that was! I seemed to be feeding on ashes, and drinking wormwood. I felt as if every morsel would choke me. We spoke to one another in measured terms. Would the miserable farce of a dinner never be over? It came to an end at last. And then she came to me trembling and penitent, and, laying her head on my shoulder, wept till tears would fall no longer. She was sober then; she had taken nothing but water at dinner. She unburdened her heart to me (so I thought), and confessed all. She told me how she and her brother had been brought up, as children, in habits of self-indulgence, especially in having free access to the wine and spirits. She told me that she and her unworthy brother had been all in all to one another, that gambling and drink had brought him into difficulties, and that she had allowed him to run up accounts in her name. She declared that he really loved and valued me, and that the thought of hurrying on our marriage for any selfish object, was quite a recent idea, suggested by distress under pecuniary embarrassment. She asserted passionately that she truly loved me; she implored me to overlook the past, and promised, with solemn appeal to Heaven, that she would renounce the drink from that hour, and give me no more uneasiness. Ay, she promised; a drunkard's promise! Lighter than the lightest gossamer; brittle as the ice of an April morning. I believed her: did she believe herself? I fear not. But the worst was to come, the shadows were deepening, the storm was gathering. A year had passed over our wedded life, when a little girl was given to us. Every cord of my heart that had been untwined or slackened of late wound itself fast round that blessed little one."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

MR. TANKARDEW'S STORY FINISHED.

"All was joy for a time. We called our little one Mary; it was a name I loved. I had not lived as a total abstainer; though, as I told you once, my mother, whom I can only recollect as a widow, had banished all intoxicants from our table. But I was young when she died, and I became, and continued for many years a moderate drinker. But now when our little girl was born, I had swept the house clear of all alcoholic drinks; we hadn't a drop in the place from cellar to attics, so I thought. And my wife agreed with me that our little one should never know the taste of the strong drink. We had not many friends, for I was shy and reserved still, and my home was my world and society; at least I wished it to be so. Sometimes I thought my wife strangely excited, it looked very like the old misery, but she solemnly declared that she never tasted anything intoxicating. I hoped she spoke the truth, even against the evidence of my senses. After a while she persuaded me that I wanted change, that I was rusting out in my loneliness. She would have me accept an invitation to a friend's house now and then: it would do me good. She was happy in her home, she said, only she should be happier still if she could see me gaining spirits by occasional intercourse with like-minded friends. Not that she wished me to leave her; it was for my own good she said it, and she should be delighting in the thoughts of the good it would do me, and should find abundance to cheer her in my absence, in the care of our darling child. She said all this so openly, so artlessly, that I believed her. I thought she might be right; so I went now and then from home for a few days, and, by degrees, more and more frequently. And my wife encouraged it. She said it did me so much good, and the benefit I reaped in improved health, spirits, and intelligence quite reconciled her to the separation. We went on so till our Mary was five years old; I could not say that my wife was ever manifestly intemperate, but painful suspicions hung like a black cloud over me. At last one summer's day, one miserable day: I can never forget it: I set out to pay a week's visit to a friend, who lived some ten miles distant from my home. I drove myself in a light, open carriage; my horse was young and rather shy. I was just going round a bend in the road, when a boy jumped suddenly over a hedge, right in front of us. Away went my horse at the top of his speed, and soon landed me in a ditch, and broke away, leaving the carriage with a fractured shaft behind him. I was not hurt myself, so I got assistance from the nearest cottage; and, having caught my horse, and found someone to whom I could trust the repairing of my vehicle, I walked home. It was afternoon when I arrived. I walked straight in through the back of the premises, and entered the dining-room; there was no one there. I was going to ring for one of the servants, when the door opened, and little Mary toddled (I ought rather to say tottered) up to me. Her mother was close behind her, but, at the sight of me, she uttered a wild cry, shut the door violently, and rushed upstairs. I had seen enough in her face: too much, too much! And the little child, our darling little Mary, what was amiss with her? Could it be? Had that cruel woman dared to do such a thing? Yes: it was so indeed: the little child was under the influence of strong drink; I drew the horrible truth from her by degrees. The mother had taught that little babe to like the exciting cup; she had sweetened and made it specially palatable. She had done this to make the child a willing partaker in her sin, to bribe her to secrecy, and to use her as a tool for the gratifying of her own vile appetite. Thus was she deliberately poisoning the body and soul of her child, and training her in deceit, that she might league that little one, as she grew up, with herself in procuring the forbidden stimulant, and in deceiving her own father. O accursed drink, which can thus turn a mother into the tempter and destroyer of her own guileless and unsuspecting child! I rushed out of the room, and was about to hurry upstairs, but I shrank back shivering and heart-sick. Then I went up slowly and heavily: my bedroom door was bolted; so was the door of my wife's dressing-room; I came downstairs again, and, taking Mary by the hand, went into my library. There the storm of trouble did its work, for it drove me down upon my knees. I poured out my heart in strong crying to God; I owned that I had lived without Him, and that I had not loved nor sought Him. I prayed for pardon and a new heart, and that He would have mercy on my poor wife and child. As I knelt in my agony of supplication I felt two little hands placed on my own, then mine were gently pulled from me, and my precious little child, looking up in my face with streaming eyes, said, 'Papa, don't cry; dear papa, don't cry. I will be a good girl.' I pressed her to my heart, and blessed God that it was not yet too late. Before nightfall I had driven away with that dear child, and had placed her with a valued friend whom I could trust, one of the few who had ever visited at our house, a total abstainer, and, better still, a devoted Christian. My child had always loved her, and I felt that I could leave her in such hands with the utmost confidence. But I had a home still, in name at least, for all the sunshine had gone out of the word 'home' for me. I returned the next day to our childless house: where was the mother? She lay on the floor of her dressing-room, crushed in spirit to the dust. I raised her up; she would not look at me, but hid her face in her hands; her eyes were dry, she had wept away all her tears. I could not bear her grief, and I tried to comfort her; all might yet be well. Again she confessed all, her deceit, her heartlessness; but she laid it to the drink. True, she was in this a self-deceiver, but how terrible must be the power for evil in a stimulant which can so utterly degrade the soul, cloud the intellect, and benumb the conscience! Well, she poured forth a torrent of vows, promises, and resolutions for the future. I bade her turn them into prayers, but she did not understand me. However, there was peace for awhile: our Mary came home again, and I watched her with an unwearying carefulness. Another year brought us a son: he sits among us now: John Randolph we call him. There was a sort of truce till John was ten years old. I knew that my poor unhappy wife still continued to obtain strong drink, but she did not take it to excess to my knowledge, and it was never placed upon our table. I was myself, at this time, practically a total abstainer, but I had signed no pledge. I didn't see the use of it then, so I had not got my children to sign. My poor wife professed to take no alcoholic stimulants, yet I could not but know that she was deceiving herself. She was, alas! Too self-confident. She seemed to think that all danger of excess was now over, and that a white lie about taking none was no real harm, so long as it satisfied me; but it neither deceived nor satisfied me. At last, one winter's day, she proposed that John should drive her in her pony-carriage to the neighbouring village, where there was an old servant of ours who was ill, whom she wanted to see. The pony was a quiet one, and was used to John's driving, so I did not object, as I was very busy at the time, and could not therefore drive myself. It was very late before she came back; she had kept the poor boy at the cottage door nearly two hours, and when she returned to the carriage was so excited that he was in fear and trembling all the way home. That night his miserable mother lay hopelessly intoxicated on a sofa when I retired to my resting-place, for to rest I certainly did not retire. From that day she utterly broke down, and became lost to all shame; one appetite, one passion alone, possessed her; a mad thirst for the drink. We separated by mutual consent, and I made her an allowance sufficient to supply all her lawful wants. Alas! Alas! The sad end hurries on. She wrote to me for a larger allowance; I knew what she wanted it for, and I refused. She wrote again and I did not reply. Then she wrote to Mary with the same object. Of course, I need hardly tell you that the children remained with me. Poor dear Mary loved her mother dearly, and sent her all her own pocket money. I found it out, and forbade it for the future. Two more years passed by. From time to time I heard of my miserable wife; she was sinking lower and lower. At last, in the twilight of an autumn evening, as Mary was returning home alone, a wild-looking, ragged woman crept towards her with a strange, undecided step: it was her mother. She flung herself at her child's feet, imploring her, if she still had any love for her, to find her the means of gratifying her insatiable thirst. She must die, she said, if she refused her. Poor Mary, poor Mary! Terror-stricken, heart-broken, she spoke words of love, of entreaty, to that miserable creature; she urged her to break off her sin; she pointed her to Jesus for strength; she told her that she dared not supply her regularly with money, as she had promised me that she would not, and it would do her no good. The wretched woman slunk away without another word. Next day her body was found floating on the river; she had destroyed herself. Poor, dear Mary never looked up after that. She connected her mother's awful end with her own refusal to give her money for the drink, though there could be no blame to her: and so she faded away, my lovely child, and left me, ere another spring came round, for the land of eternal summers. I was heart-sick, hopeless; life seemed objectless; I gave way to despondency, and forgot my duty as a man and a Christian. I felt that I was no proper guide nor companion for poor John; so I sent him first to France, where he gained his skill as an artist and musician; and since then he has, by his own desire, been a traveller in distant lands. I let my house, and came over to Hopeworth, to be out of the way of everything and everybody that could remind me of the past. Yet, I could not forget. You noticed the vacant space in my sitting-room, where a picture should have been; that empty space reminded me of what might have been, had my wife, whose portrait should have been there, been a different wife to me. But light came at last. When I saw you, Mary my child, for the first time, I scarce knew what to say or think. You were, and are, the very image of my own loved and lost one, my Mary my beloved child; the portrait behind the panel is hers. I longed to have you for my own. I determined, however, to see what you were; I went to the juvenile party merely for that end. And then, when John came home unexpectedly, I resolved in my heart that, if I could bring it about, you should be my own dear child. So John and I talked it over; and John, who is a true branch from the old tree, a little crotchety or so, was resolved to win you in his own fashion; and, having learnt a little colonial independence, he wished to look at you a bit behind the scenes; so he would come before you, not as the heir of an eccentric old gentleman, with a good estate and plenty of money to speak for him, but as the travelled artist and music-master. And now, I think I've pretty well unravelled the greater part of the tangle; the rest you can easily smooth out for yourselves.

"So you see it has been 'nearly lost, but dearly won.' My child, Mary, you nearly lost old Esau's heart, when you seemed bent on throwing your own away; but you've won it, and won it dearly, like a dear good child. You nearly lost your peace to one who would soon have drowned it out of home, but you won it dearly and bravely, I know, at no little sacrifice. And John, my son, I once thought you'd nearly lost the noblest and best of wives; but you've won her, and dearly, too, but she's worth the price of a little stooping, ay, and of a great deal too. And old Esau Tankardew nearly lost his peace and his self-respect, in selfish unsanctified sorrow, but he has won something better than respect, though it cost him a hard struggle; he has won a daughter who hates that drink which blotted out light and joy from the old man's home and heart; and he has won, through grace, a peace that passeth understanding, and can say, 'Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.'"

THE END.