ture! What business has she creeping
in here every night?"

"She must have a nice kind of a mother," remarked Green, with a cold
sneer.

"I don't know what she is now," said Slade, a slight touch of feeling
in his voice--"heart-broken, I suppose. I couldn't look at her last
night; it made me sick. But there was a time when Fanny Morgan was the
loveliest and best woman in Cedarville. I'll say that for her. Oh,
dear! What a life her miserable husband has caused her to lead."

"Better that he were dead and out of the way."

"Better a thousand times," answered Slade. "If he'd only fall down some
night and break his neck, it would be a blessing to his family."

"And to you in particular," laughed Green.

"You may be sure it wouldn't cost me a large sum for mourning," was the
unfeeling response.

Let us leave the bar-room of the "Sickle and Sheaf," and its
cold-hearted inmates, and look in upon the family of Joe Morgan, and
see how it is in the home of the poor inebriate. We will pass by a
quick transition.

"Joe!" The thin white hand of Mrs. Morgan clasps the arm of her
husband, who has arisen up suddenly, and now stands by the partly
opened door. "Don't go out to-night, Joe. Please, don't go out."

"Father!" A feeble voice calls from the corner of an old settee, where
little Mary lies with her head bandaged.

"Well, I won't then!" is replied--not angrily, nor even fretfully--but
in a kind voice.

"Come and sit by me, father." How tenderly, yet how full of concern is
that low, sweet voice. "Come, won't you?"

"Yes, dear."

"Now hold my hand, father."

Joe takes the hand of little Mary, that instantly tightens upon his.

"You won't go away and leave me to-night, will you, father? Say you
won't."

"How very hot your hand is, dear. Does your head ache?"

"A little; but it will soon feel better."

Up into the swollen and disfigured face of the fallen father, the
large, earnest blue eyes of the child are raised. She does not see the
marred lineaments; but only the beloved countenance of her parent.

"Dear father!"

"What, love?"

"I wish you'd promise me something."

"What, dear?"

"Will you promise?"

"I can't say until I hear your request. If I can promise, I will."

"Oh, you can promise--you can, father!"

How the large blue eyes dance and sparkle!

"What is it, love?"

"That you will never go into Simon Slade's bar any more."

The child raises herself, evidently with a painful effort; a