e to-night. That's the way of the world.
How apt a scholar is our good friend Dustycoat, in this new school!
Well, he was a good miller--no one ever disputed that--and it's plain
to see that he is going to make a good landlord. I thought his heart
was a little too soft; but the indurating process has begun, and, in
less than ten years, if it isn't as hard as one of his old mill-stones,
Joe Morgan is no prophet. Oh, you needn't knit your brows so, friend
Simon, we're old friends; and friends are privileged to speak plain."

"I wish you'd go home. You're not yourself tonight," said the landlord,
a little coaxingly, for he saw that nothing was to be gained by
quarreling with Morgan. "Maybe my heart is growing harder," he added,
with affected good-humor; "and it is time, perhaps. One of my
weaknesses, I have heard even you say, was being too woman-hearted."

"No danger of that now," retorted Joe Morgan. "I've known a good many
landlords in my time, but can't remember one that was troubled with the
disease that once afflicted you."

Just at this moment the outer door was pushed open with a slow,
hesitating motion; then a little pale face peered in, and a pair of
soft blue eyes went searching about the room. Conversation was
instantly hushed, and every face, excited with interest, turned toward
the child, who had now stepped through the door. She was not over ten
years of age; but it moved the heart to look upon the saddened
expression of her young countenance, and the forced bravery therein,
that scarcely overcame the native timidity so touchingly visible.

"Father!" I have never heard this word spoken in a voice that sent such
a thrill along every nerve. It was full of sorrowful love--full of a
tender concern that had its origin too deep for the heart of a child.
As she spoke, the little one sprang across the room, and laying her
hands upon the arm of Joe Morgan, lifted her eyes, that were ready to
gush over with tears, to his face.

"Come father! won't you come home?" I hear that low, pleading voice
even now, and my heart gives a quicker throb. Poor child! Darkly
shadowed was the sky that bent gloomily over thy young life.

Morgan arose, and suffered the child to lead him from the room. He
seemed passive in her hands. I noticed that he thrust his fingers
nervously into his pocket, and that a troubled look went over his face
as they were withdrawn. His last sixpence was in the till of Simon
Slade!

The first man who