toil.
Lame Sally and her mother had been talking over, what was in everyone's
mouth and thoughts, the sad downfall of the Rothwells. They saw God's
hand in it, but they did not rejoice; they had found their Saviour true
to His word, and enjoyed a peace in casting their care on Him which they
knew all the wealth of the world could not have given them. Only one
thing they still prayed for which the Lord had not yet granted: Jim,
poor Jim! But what was that? A footstep: how their hearts beat! Could
it be the old familiar tread? Yes; Jim, but no longer drunken,
gambling, prodigal Jim, was next moment at his mother's feet, and a
minute after with his arms round his sister's neck. And there was
weeping, but not for sorrow, in that cottage, and there was joy before
the angels of heaven over a repentant sinner. Jim was come back. A
mother's and sister's prayers had reached him and drawn him home. He
was sober now: he was a pledged abstainer: he had brought his pay in his
hand and love in his heart; and that night, while the shadows lay thick
around the deserted mansion of "The Firs," and not even the wail of
sorrow broke the stillness, there was light and music and peace in that
humble cottage; the light of love, the music of thanksgiving, and "the
peace of God which passeth understanding."

CHAPTER TEN.

DESPERATE DOINGS.

It is not to be supposed that Mary Franklin could mourn very deeply the
departure of Mark Rothwell. Recent events had worn out the old
impressions of tenderness. All that was bright and attractive in Mark
had melted away before the scorching, withering flame of alcohol. She
had heard his cruel taunts to her preserver on the evening of her
rescue; she had seen him shamefully intoxicated when ill-using his poor
horse. Could she cherish love or tenderness for such a being as this?
Impossible! She was thankful to forget him. O misery! Why do so many
of the good and noble frown upon those who would keep the intoxicating
cup altogether out of the hands of the young? What do the young lose by
never tasting it? Not health, not cheerfulness, not self-respect, not
self-control. No! And what do they gain by tasting? Too often, habits
of ruinous self-indulgence; too often a thirst which grows with years;
too often a withered manhood or womanhood, and a decrepit and
dishonoured old age.

October was drawing to its close: nothing had been heard of the
Rothwells, and their old dwelling was no