his son, his hand
raised to strike him.

"Keep off!" cried Frank. "Keep off! If you touch me, I'll strike you
down!" At the same time raising the half-filled bottle threateningly.

But his father was in too maddened a state to fear any consequences,
and so pressed forward upon his son, striking him in the face the
moment he came near enough to do so.

Instantly, the young man, infuriated by drink and evil passions, threw
the bottle at his father's head. The dangerous missile fell, crashing
upon one of his temples, shivering it into a hundred pieces. A heavy,
jarring fall too surely marked the fearful consequences of the blow.
When we gathered around the fallen man, and made an effort to lift him
from the floor, a thrill of horror went through every heart. A mortal
paleness was already on his marred face, and the death-gurgle in his
throat! In three minutes from the time the blow was struck, his spirit
had gone upward to give an account of the deeds done in the body.

"Frank Slade! you have murdered your father!"

Sternly were these terrible words uttered. It was some time before the
young man seemed to comprehend their meaning. But the moment he
realized the awful truth, he uttered an exclamation of horror. Almost
at the same instant, a pistol-shot came sharply on the ear. But the
meditated self-destruction was not accomplished. The aim was not surely
taken; and the ball struck harmlessly against the ceiling.

Half an hour afterward, and Frank Slade was a lonely prisoner in the
county jail!

Does the reader need a word of comment on this fearful consummation?
No; and we will offer none.

NIGHT THE TENTH.

THE CLOSING SCENE AT THE "SICKLE AND SHEAF."

On the day that succeeded the evening of this fearful tragedy, placards
were to be seen all over the village, announcing a mass meeting at the
"Sickle and Sheaf" that night.

By early twilight, the people commenced assembling. The bar, which had
been closed all day, was now thrown open, and lighted; and in this
room, where so much of evil had been originated, encouraged and
consummated, a crowd of earnest-looking men were soon gathered. Among
them I saw the fine person of Mr. Hargrove. Joe Morgan--or rather, Mr.
Morgan--was also one of the number. The latter I would scarcely have
recognized, had not some one near me called him by name. He was well
dressed, stood erect, and though there were many deep lines on his
thoughtful countenance, all traces of h