shall be one on earth, unless I
can trust too that we shall be one hereafter in heaven."

"My precious child," replied her mother, "you know our doubts and our
fears. You know that Frank has acknowledged to increasing fondness for
intoxicating drinks. You know that his poor mother will rather
encourage that taste. And oh, if you should marry, and he should become
a drunkard--a confirmed drunkard--oh, surely he will bring misery on my
beloved child, and her father's and mother's grey hairs with sorrow to
the grave."

"Dearest mamma, you have only to say that you are convinced that I
cannot be happy with him, or that you and dear papa consider that I
ought to relinquish all thoughts about him, and I will at once endeavour
to banish him from my heart."

"No, my child. Your affections, it is clear, have already become
entangled, and therefore we are not in the same position to advise you
as if your heart were free to give or to withhold. Had it been
otherwise, we should have urged you to pause before you allowed any
thoughts about Frank to lodge in your heart, or perhaps to be prepared
to give a decided refusal, in case of his making a declaration of his
attachment."

"But you do not think him quite hopeless, dear mamma? Remember how
anxious he seemed at one time to become a total abstainer. And might
not I influence him to take the decided step, when I should have a right
to do so with which no one could interfere?"

"It might be so, my darling. God will direct. But only promise me one
thing--should Frank ask you to engage yourself to him, and you should
discover that he is becoming the slave of intemperance before the time
arrives when you are both old enough to marry, promise me that in that
case you will break off the engagement."

"I promise you, dearest mamma, that, cost what struggle it may, I will
never marry a drunkard."

It was but a few days after the above conversation that Frank Oldfield
called at the rectory. It was the first time that he and Mary had met
since the day of their memorable adventure. He was looking pale, and
carried his arm in a sling, but his open look and bright smile were
unchanged.

"I carry about with me, you see, dear Mary," he said, "my apology for
not having sooner called to inquire after you. I hope you were not
seriously the worse for your fright and your climb?"

"Oh no," she replied earnestly; "only so grieved when I found what you
had suffered in saving me.