; it's the truth,
it is for sure."

"Mother," said Betty, mournfully, "can you really talk in that fashion
to fayther, when you know how the drink's been the cause of all the
misery in our house, till it's driven our poor Sammul away to crouch him
down on other folk's hearth-stones in foreign parts? I should have
thought we might all have learnt a lesson by this time."

"It's no use talking, child," replied her mother; "you go your way, and
take your fayther with you if he's a mind, but don't think to come over
me with your talk; I'm not a babe, I can take care of myself. The
drink's good enough in moderation, and I'm going to be moderate. But
lads and wenches is so proud now-a-days that mothers has to hearken and
childer does the teaching."

Poor Betty! she sighed, and said no more. Johnson also saw that it was
no use reasoning with his wife. Her appetite for the drink was
unquenchable. It was clear that she loved it better than husband,
children, home, conscience, soul. Alas! poor Thomas's was a heavy
burden indeed. Could he only have been sure that his son was alive and
well, he could have borne his troubles better; but now he seemed crushed
to the very earth. And yet, strange as it might seem, he did not feel
tempted to fly to the drink again for consolation; he rather shrank from
the very sight and thought of it. Ah, there were many prayers being
offered up for him; unseen hands were guiding him, and in his home was
the daily presence of one who was indeed a help and comfort to him. He
clung to Betty now, and she to him, with a peculiar tenderness. _Her_
heart was full of the warm glow of unselfish love, and his was learning
to expand and unfold under the influence of her bright example. Theirs
was a common sorrow and a common hope, as far as Samuel was concerned.
Why had he not written to them from Liverpool, or from whatever port he
had sailed from? That he _had_ gone beyond the sea, they were both
firmly convinced. Betty, of course, had her own special sorrow. She
could not forget that terrible night--she could not forget the knife and
the blood--though she was still fully persuaded that her brother had not
laid violent hands on himself. But oh, if he would only write, what a
load of misery would be taken off both their hearts; yet no letter came.
November wore away, December came and went, the new year began, still
there was no news of Samuel. Ned Brierley did all he could to console
the un