_hoped_ the best about him, but
that hope had begun to droop for some time past. He had never yet
ventured to declare his affection to her; somehow or other he could not.
A little spark of nobleness still remained in him unquenched by the
drink, and it lighted him to see that to bind Mary to himself for life
would be to tie her to a living firebrand that would scorch and shrivel
up beauty, health and peace. He dared not speak: before her unsullied
loveliness his drink-envenomed lips were closed: he could rattle on in
wild exuberance of spirits, but he could not yet venture to ask her to
be his. And she? She pitied him deeply, and her heart's affections
hovered over him; would they settle there? If so, lost! Lost! All
peace would be lost: how great her peril!

Another visit from Mr Tankardew: the old man had been a frequent
caller, and was ever welcome. That he cherished a fatherly love for
Mary was evident; indeed his heart seemed divided between herself and
the young musician, Mr John Randolph, who, though he had ceased to give
lessons at "The Firs," was most scrupulously punctual in his attendance
at "The Shrubbery."

It was a bright summer's morning as the old man sat in the drawing-room
where Mary and her mother were engaged in the mysteries of the needle.

"Let me hear your last piece, my child," he said; "John tells me that he
will soon have nothing more to teach you."

Mary sat down and played with loving grace, till the old man bowed his
head upon his hands and wept.

"`Home, sweet home!'" he murmured. "Ay; you have played that lovely air
with variations as if you felt it: you know what a sweet home is, Mary;
I knew it once. `Home, sweet home!'" he added again, with a sigh.

There was a pause: then he went on: "There are plenty of homes that
aren't sweet; homes with variations enough and to spare in them; but
they're variations of misery. I hope you'll never have one of those
homes, my child."

Mary coloured deeply, and her mother's eyes filled with tears. Mr
Tankardew looked earnestly at them both.

"No danger of any but sweet variations _here_," he said; "but all new
homes are not sweet homes--there's no sweetness that will last where the
barrel, the bottle, and the spirit-flask play a trio of discords:
they'll drown all the harmonies of harp and piano. Promise me two
things, my child;" he added, abruptly.

"What are they?" asked Mary, timidly and tearfully.

"Just these: promise me t