ay is too true," remarked Mrs Franklin, sadly;
"if our young people continue to be brought up in such self-indulgent
habits, we may well expect to hear God crying aloud by His judgments,
`Woe to the drunkards of England,' as He once cried, `Woe to the
drunkards of Ephraim.'"

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A DOUBLE PERIL.

"I'll tell you what it is, Mark, I _must_ have a stop put to this: my
patience is quite worn out. Do you think I'm made of money? Do you
think I can coin money as fast as you choose to spend it? You'll ruin
me with your thoughtless, selfish extravagance, and break your mother's
heart and mine by your drunkenness and folly, that you will."

These words, uttered in a tone of passionate bitterness, were spoken by
Mr Rothwell to his son in the hall at "The Firs," as the young man was
urging his father to grant him a considerable sum to pay some pressing
debts. At the same moment Mr John Randolph came out of the drawing-
room, and could not help overhearing what was being said.

Mr Rothwell turned fiercely upon him:

"What right have _you_, sir, to be intruding on my privacy?" he cried,
nettled at his rebuke having been overheard by a stranger.

"I am not conscious of being guilty of any intrusion," said the other
quietly.

"You _are_ intruding," cried Mark, glad to vent his exasperation at his
father's reproaches on somebody, and specially glad of an opportunity of
doing so on the music-master.

"You shall not need to make the complaint again then," said Mr
Randolph, calmly, "my lessons to your sisters will cease from to-day;"
and with a stiff bow he closed the door behind him.

Rather more than two years had elapsed since Jim Forbes' enlistment when
the scene just described took place. Mark had been sinking deeper and
deeper in the mire; he was scarcely ever sober except when visiting the
Franklins, on which occasions he was always on his guard, though his
excited manner, and the eagerness with which he tossed down the few
glasses of wine to which he, evidently with difficulty, restricted
himself, made a most painful impression not only _on_ Mrs Franklin, but
also on her daughter.

Mary was now nineteen, and shone with the brightness which the gentle
light of holiness casts on every word and feature. She was full of
innocent cheerfulness, and was the joy of all who knew her. Mark loved
her as much as he could love anything that was not himself, and tried to
make himself acceptable to her. Mary