other, and this taste for stimulant, which I
am sorry to see the children possess, may not always permit them to
remain satisfied with a glass or so daily; for, I was reading not long
ago, that the tendency of alcohol is to create a morbid craving which
may become that insatiable thirst for drink which has ruined thousands
of men and women who were once children as promising as those who sit
round our table. I wish I had been as wise years ago; they should never
have known the taste of it." So saying, Mr. Stewart left the table.

A chorus of voices was raised as the door closed.

"It's too bad!" "A great shame!" "Lemonade, indeed!" and other
exclamations were uttered expressing disapproval of the father's action.
Mrs. Stewart had not been careful of late years to uphold her husband's
authority in the household, and the unfilial remarks passed without
rebuke, she merely adding: "You'll have to mind what your father says,
you know, or we shall all get into trouble."

A few hours after, when the elder children were at school, the youngest,
a bright boy of seven, came to her side and said: "Shall I get your
wine, mamma?"

"You are mamma's dear boy to remember her lunch time. Yes, bring it out,
though it is quite early."

The wine was brought, and one glass, and then another, and yet another
was drained; the little fellow meanwhile standing by. Catching sight of
his wistful looks, the mother said: "Come, and have a sip, Bertie."

"Papa says I mustn't," faltered Bertie, but drawing a step nearer. Lost
to all sense of duty to husband or child, Mrs. Stewart answered:

"Come, and drink, I tell you; didn't your father say you were not to
have any at dinner, and this is lunch?"

She poured out a full glass, which the child drank without further
demur. He was shortly asleep on the sofa, waking at dinner-time in
fretful mood, and turning impatiently from his food.

"I want my ale," he cried.

"You mustn't have it, Bertie," said his eldest sister; "we all have to
do without it now, thanks to papa's whimsical notions."

"Wait till you're a man, Bertie, and you can drink as much as you
please, as I mean to," remarked his fourteen-year-old brother with a
contracted brow, and a longing glance towards his mother's glass; while
she, poor deluded woman, looked on, languidly smiling, with never a
thought of the possible future of these children for whom she had
suffered and toiled. Many a time, when scarcely conscious of her own