kness, dogged the
footsteps of a great handsome, good-natured, ordinary-gifted wretch,
who _could_ never make him any return but affection, and had now
withdrawn all interchange of common friendship in order that he might
go the downward road unchecked. Cupples was driven almost distracted.
He drank harder than ever, but with less satisfaction than ever, for he
only grew the more miserable. He thought of writing to Alec's mother,
but, with the indecision of a drunkard, he could not make up his mind,
and pondered over every side of the question, till he was lost in a
maze of incapacity.

Bad went to worse. Vice grew upon vice.

There are facts in human life which human artists cannot touch. The
great Artist can weave them into the grand whole of his Picture, but to
the human eye they look too ugly and too painful. Even the man who can
do the deeds dares not represent them. Mothers have to know such facts
of their sons, and such facts of women like themselves.

Alec had fallen amongst a set of men who would not be satisfied till he
should be as low as they--till there should be nothing left in him to
remind them that they had once been better. The circle in which he
began to drink had gradually contracted about him. The better sort had
fallen away, and the worse had remained--chiefly older men than he, men
who had come near to the enjoyment of vileness for its own sake, if
that be possible, and who certainly enjoyed making others like
themselves. Encouraged by their laughter and approbation, Alec began to
emulate them, and would soon have had very little to learn if things
had not _taken a turn_. A great hand is sometimes laid even on the
fly-wheel of life's engine.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

Andrew Constable, with his wife and old-fashioned child Isie, was
seated at tea in the little parlour opening from the shop, when he was
called out by a customer. He remained longer than was likely to be
accounted for by the transaction of business at that time of the day.
And when he returned his honest face looked troubled.

"Wha was that?" asked his wife.

"Ow! it was naebody but Jeames Johnston, wantin' a bit o' flannin for's
wife's coatie."

"And what had he to say 'at keepit ye till yer tay's no fit to drink?"

"Ow! my tay'll do weel eneuch. It's nae by ordinar' cauld."

"But what said he?"

"Weel! hm! hm!--He said it was fine frosty weather."

"Ay, nae doobt! He kent that by the way the shuttle flew. Was that