and there you stood in the door. And you were dressed so nice.
You had on a new hat and a new coat; and your boots were new, and
polished just like Judge Hammond's. I said: 'Oh father! is this you?'
And then you took me up in your arms and kissed me, and said: 'Yes,
Mary, I am your real father. Not old Joe Morgan--but Mr. Morgan now.'
It seemed all so strange, that I looked into the bar-room to see who
was there. But it wasn't a bar-room any longer; but a store full of
goods. The sign of the 'Sickle and Sheaf' was taken down; and over the
door I now read your name, father. Oh! I was so glad, that I awoke--and
then I cried all to myself, for it was only a dream."

The last words were said very mournfully, and with a drooping of Mary's
lids, until the tear-gemmed lashes lay close upon her cheeks. Another
period of deep silence followed--for the oppressed listeners gave no
utterance to what was in their hearts. Feeling was too strong for
speech. Nearly five minutes glided away, and then Mary whispered the
name of her father, but without opening her eyes.

Morgan answered, and bent down his ear.

"You will only have mother left," she said--"only mother. And she cries
so much when you are away."

"I won't leave her, Mary, only when I go to work," said Morgan,
whispering back to the child. "And I'll never go out at night any more."

"Yes; you promised me that."

"And I'll promise more."

"What, father?"

"Never to go into a tavern again."

"Never!"

"No, never. And I'll promise still more."

"Father?"

"Never to drink a drop of liquor as long as I live."

"Oh, father! dear, dear father!" And with a cry of joy Mary started up
and flung herself upon his breast. Morgan drew his arms tightly around
her, and sat for a long time, with his lips pressed to her cheek--while
she lay against his bosom as still as death. As death? Yes: for when
the father unclasped his arms, the spirit of his child was with the
angels of the resurrection!

It was my fourth evening in the bar-room of the 'Sickle and Sheaf'. The
company was not large, nor in very gay spirits. All had heard of little
Mary's illness; which followed so quickly on the blow from the tumbler,
that none hesitated about connecting the one with the other. So regular
had been the child's visits, and so gently excited, yet powerful her
influence over her father, that most of the frequenters at the 'Sickle
and Sheaf' had felt for her a more than common interest; whi