that I did not give way to rebellion, as I was tempted to
do; but I am not now a boy, father. If you will talk calmly with me--"

"Calmly!" interrupted Mr Osten, growing still more angry at the quiet
demeanour of his son; "do you mean to insinuate that--that--. What do
you mean, sir?"

"I insinuate nothing, father; I mean that I wish you to hear me
patiently."

"I _won't_ hear you," cried Mr Osten, rising from his chair, "I've
heard you till I'm tired of it. Go if you choose, if you dare. You
know the result."

Saying this he left the room hastily, shutting the door behind him with
a bang.

A grave, stern expression settled on the youth's countenance as he arose
and followed him into the passage. Meeting his mother there, he seized
her suddenly in his arms and held her in a long embrace; then, without
explaining the cause of his strong emotion, he ran down stairs and left
his father's house.

In a dirty narrow street, near the harbour of the town, there stood a
small public-house which was frequented chiefly by the sailors who
chanced to be in the port, and by the squalid population in its
immediate neighbourhood. Although small, the Red Lion Inn was superior
in many respects to its surroundings. It was larger than the decayed
buildings that propped it; cleaner than the locality that owned it;
brighter and warmer than the homes of the lean crew on whom it fattened.
It was a pretty, light, cheery, snug place of temptation, where men and
women, and even children assembled at nights to waste their hard-earned
cash and ruin their health. It was a place where the devil reigned, and
where the work of murdering souls was carried on continually,--
nevertheless it was a "jolly" place. Many good songs were sung there,
as well as bad ones; and many a rough grasp of hearty friendship was
exchanged. Few people, going into the house for a few minutes, could
have brought themselves to believe that it was such a _very_ broad part
of the road leading to destruction: but the landlord had some hazy
notion on that point. He sat there day and night, and saw the
destruction going on. He saw the blear-eyed, fuddled men that came to
drown conscience in his stalls, and the slatternly women who came and
went. Nevertheless he was a rosy, jocund fellow who appeared to have a
good deal of the milk of human kindness about him, and would have looked
on you with great surprise, if not scorn, had you told him that he had a
hand in