e period
of her marriage--so that notwithstanding the dissipated habits of the
husband and father they still possessed a home, although many of the
comforts of former days had disappeared before the blighting influence
of the demon of intemperance. After being dismissed by his employers Mr.
Harland seemed to lose all respect for himself, as well as for his wife
and children, and, but for the unceasing toil of the patient mother, his
children might have often asked for bread in vain.

So low had he now fallen that almost every evening found him in some low
haunt of drunkenness and dissipation; and often upon returning to his
home he would assail his gentle wife with harsh and unfeeling language.

Many there were who advised Mrs. Harland to return with her children
to her parents, who were in affluent circumstances, but she still
cherished the hope that he would yet reform. "I pray daily for my erring
husband," she would often say, "and I feel an assurance that, sooner or
later, my prayers will be answered; and I cannot feel it my duty to
forsake him." But on this evening, as she sits thus alone, her mind is
filled with thoughts of the past, which she cannot help contrasting with
the miserable present, till her reverie is interrupted by the sound of
approaching footsteps, which she soon recognizes as those of her
husband: she is much surprised--for it is long, very long, since he has
returned to his home at so early an hour--and, as he enters the room,
her surprise increases when she perceives that he is perfectly sober. As
he met her wondering gaze a kind expression rested upon his countenance,
and he addressed her saying: "I do not wonder at your astonishment, dear
Mary, when I call to mind my past misconduct. I have been a fiend in
human shape thus to ill-treat and neglect the best of wives; but I have
made a resolve, 'God helping' me, that it shall be so no longer."
Seating himself by her side, he continued: "If you will listen to me,
Mary, I will tell you what caused me to form this resolution. When I
went out this evening I at once made my way to the public house, where I
have spent so much of my time and money. Money, I had none, and, worse
than this, was owing the landlord a heavy bill. Of late he had assailed
me with duns every time I entered the house; but so craving was the
appetite for drink that each returning evening still found me among the
loungers in the bar-room trusting to my chance of meeting with some