CHAPTER VIII.

A HAPPY ENDING.

"YOU skulking good-for-nothing greenhorn! go and beg on the streets if

you will, for I'll never raise my hand to save you from starvation,"

roared Dick Greenwood, when a few hours later John told him he intended

returning to Melbourne.

"I quite believe that, Dick, for you've done your best to bring me to

it," replied John.

But Dick poured out such a volley of oaths, that John wisely forbore to

say anything further.

Finding he could not provoke John to retaliate, Dick sneered: "I suppose

now you've sown your wild oats, and got all you could out of me, you'll

be sending for that smooth-tongued, virtuous wench to come out and help

you keep straight, for such a poor weak fool as you'll never do without

some one to look after you; but see if I don't let her know a few of

your nice little secrets."

John's blood was raised to boiling-point. He started to his feet, and

the next minute Dick lay prostrate before him.

"Take that," he cried; "and if you dare to say one more word about her,

I'll give you cause to repent it. You're not worthy to lick the ground

she treads on."

Dick looked up, but neither moved nor spoke, while his younger brother

thrust a few odds and ends into a bag, and prepared to leave. Coward as

he was, he feared to provoke John's just anger again, and not till after

the door was violently slammed behind his brother, and the sound of his

rapid footsteps had died away, did Dick rise from the ground.

Then he shook himself to ascertain if he had received any damages, and

finding himself not much the worse for his fall, he sat down and took

out his pipe. For some time he smoked furiously, and then struck his

hands together as he exclaimed:

"I'll do it, as sure as I live! I'll pay him out for this, or my name's

not Dick Greenwood."

Three days after, John walked into the store in Melbourne, where he had

been previously employed.

"It's you, is it?" said the foreman; "ain't you satisfied with your

change?"

"No," said John, with emphasis; "I'd rather sweep a crossing. I suppose

you've filled my place."

The foreman nodded, and jerked his thumb in the direction of a young man

who was leisurely serving a customer.

"Do you really want work, man, or is it only 'come and go' again?" asked

he, seeing that John looked disappointed.

"Mr. Smith, I'd give anything for a chance to work. I'm sick of knocking

about."

"Well, look here! he ain't up to much good," and the shopman was again

indicated; "got no 'go' in him, and you always suited me. You may come

and show him how to do business in my line, but you'll have to start

with lower wages, eh?"

John thankfully accepted the offer. "Now for Ruth and a home of my own!"

he said the next morning, when beginning his work.

It was scarcely a wise decision he had made, not to write to her until

he was ready to send for her; but a certain feeling of pride held him

back, for he said: "She doubted me once, and now I'll wait till I can

prove myself worthy of her trust."

Meanwhile, in heart-sickening suspense, Ruth waited mail after mail for

an answer to her letter. At last there came one for her, bearing the

Australian postmark. She tore it open in fear, for the handwriting was

strange. It ran as follows:

"Dear Miss,

"I am sorry to send you bad news, but you must

take it kindly from one who wishes you well. The

truth is, that Jack is going to the bad as fast as

he can, which I'm sorry to say of my own brother.

I was downright ashamed of the way he went on,

after reading a letter you sent him. He got real

mad over it, and swore he'd have nothing to do

with a canting Methodist, and a deal more which I

won't write, not wishing to put you about. Last of

all, he tore the letter up. I write these few

lines to save you from expecting to hear any more

of him, as he's off on his own hook, and I wash my

hands of the scamp.

"Hoping you are in health, I remain,

"Your obedient servant,

"R. GREENWOOD."

Ruth sat stunned. The bell rang, but she heeded not. Alice came up, but

she took no notice of her anxious inquiries. Hearing of her condition,

Harry Groombridge left the dinner-table and went to her.

"She's had some shock; this letter doubtless! May I read it, Ruth?" he

asked.

The girl mutely assented.

The young man glanced through the contents, and handed it to his mother,

who had followed him. She read it, and they exchanged looks. Then Mrs.

Groombridge took one of Ruth's cold hands in hers, and said:

"Ruth, my dear girl, this letter is a hoax, I am persuaded, for you know

John's brother is an unprincipled man. I think he has quarrelled with

John, and then revenged himself by writing to you in this cruel way. I

can't think John has gone so far wrong as to talk of you before his

brother in such a manner. My impression is, that he was glad to get your

letter, and left his brother, resolving to prove himself worthy of you

yet."

"That's about it," remarked Harry.

Ruth gasped with a sense of relief.

"Oh, if I could but think so; but then, why doesn't he write himself?"

she said.

"I can't say, but trust him a little longer, Ruth. When did his parents

last hear from him?"

"I don't know, ma'am. Lately I've felt I couldn't go there."

"You shall run down to-night; or stay, you are not fit to go. Harry,

will you go at once to Mrs. Greenwood, and ask her to bring John's last

letters?"

"With pleasure, mother." He soon returned with Mrs. Greenwood.

"You've had a letter from Dick, my dear, that's upset you, so the young

gentleman says. I hope he's all right, for it's long since we had a

line, though we hear every other mail from John," she said.

"Do tell me where he is, and what he is doing, for Dick says he is going

to the bad fast, and I can't believe it," said Ruth.

"That I'm sure he isn't," cried the mother; "he left the store to go

with Dick, but he's gone back now, for he says it was a wild life that

didn't suit him, and he got into a bad set; but he's doing well now, and

living quiet and respectable, and tells us he has signed the pledge,

and--and--but oh, my dear, I wasn't to tell you this; for he meant to

write himself and tell you all about it, but you were so anxious, what

could I do?"

Ruth's eyes filled with happy tears. How abundantly her prayers were

being answered she only found when she came to read John's letters!

"I must wait patiently till he writes to me; but why doesn't he reply to

my letter?"

"Depend upon it, Ruth, he never had it, or he would at least have

mentioned it when writing home. It must have fallen into his brother's

hands," replied Mrs. Groombridge.

"I don't believe Dick is as bad as that," said the mother, when Ruth's

mistress had left the room.

"My dear," said Mr. Groombridge, after hearing the story; "I shall

persuade Ruth to go out at once. Our friends, the Grahams, who find it

so difficult to secure good servants in Melbourne, will be only too glad

of Ruth's help until John can make her a home, and she will be a

strength and stay to him, and all suspense for her will be over."

"I don't like to part with Ruth a day before I'm obliged, but I think

your plan excellent," returned his wife.

It was discovered that, when consulted, Ruth's opinion coincided exactly

with that of her mistress, and a month afterwards she bade farewell to

her friends and sailed for Australia.

* * * * *

"You've a young man named Greenwood in your employ, I believe?" said a

gentleman, walking into the store where John was engaged.

"Yes, I have, sir."

"Can you spare him an hour or two? I want him to meet a friend who is

coming in by the steamer to-day from England."

"Certainly, sir. Here, John, this gentleman wants you to go down with

him to the Docks."

John looked surprised, but, supposing it to be a business call, put on

his coat and hat and walked out.

"Are you expecting a friend from England?" asked the stranger.

"No, sir, I wish I was," was John's involuntary reply.

"I had a letter from my old friend Mr. Groombridge, of Bristol, and he

asked me to call for you on my way to the Docks, as some one you once

knew was coming in by the steamer."

"Who did he say it was, sir?" asked John, with a sudden tumultuous

beating of the heart.

"He did mention the name, I believe; but, dear me, I've left the letter

at home. It's no matter, though, you will soon learn," said Mr. Graham,

with an amused smile, as he watched John's face.

"It couldn't be, of course," argued John to himself; but as the steamer

came in he eagerly scanned the faces of the passengers, with but one

thought.

No, she was not there, and with a bitter feeling of disappointment he

fell back.

"John! Oh, John!"

He looked up. How could he have overlooked that figure with eager hands

stretched out towards him! Yes, it was his trusting, loving Ruth, who,

unasked, had crossed the seas to help and cheer him in the hard battle

he was fighting for her sake.

"Oh, Ruthie," he said, as he grasped her hands; "I don't deserve this.

Why have you come, darling?"

"Why, I came for your sake, of course, John; but are you quite sure you

want me?"

"You may well ask that, for I've been a brute to you; and now I know I

ought to have written to you, but you might have sent me a line, Ruth."

"So I did, and I believe Dick must have got it."

"The scamp!" exclaimed John.

"Ah, don't say anything unkind now, for it's all happened for the best."

Then Mr. Graham came up, and John went to see about Ruth's luggage,

further explanations and news from home being reserved till the evening,

when John had finished his day's work.

When Ruth's long story was finished, John sat thoughtful and silent for

some time.

"Yes, Ruthie, I do feel you are right. I want a stronger power than even

my love for you to keep me from yielding to temptation, and I will from

this time give my whole life, with its many sins and mistakes, into the

Hand of the One who will forgive all, and make me a new creature," he

presently said.

"Thank God for that; we can help each other now, John!"

It was only a humble home to which John took Ruth a few months later;

but mutual love and trust made it the happiest place on earth to the two

who had waited so long for the fulfilment of their hopes.

"Guess what news I've got, John," said Ruth, with a beaming face one

morning, shortly after she had been installed as mistress.

"You've drawn your money out of the Savings Bank, and taken passage in

the steamer that leaves for England to-day."

"Foolish boy! No, I've had a letter from Alice, and she says that master

and mistress have agreed to give up all intoxicants, and they say it's

all through our example. How delighted I am, to be sure, aren't you,

John?"

"Yes, little woman, I'm very pleased; but don't say our example, for you

set the example, and you ought to have all the credit."

"Ah, John, you know I did it all for your sake, dear," whispered the

happy wife.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

HOW THE FOE CREPT IN.[A]

CHAPTER I.

MODERATE DRINKING.

"I SAY, mother, what do you think's the latest joke?" said a respectable

artisan to his wife, as he entered his home with his bag of tools slung

across his shoulder.

"I'm sure I can't guess, George," answered the woman, with a pleasant

smile on her face as she welcomed her husband.

"Well, don't drop the baby when I tell you. Tim Morris has signed the

pledge!"

"Good gracious, George, you don't say so! Why, do you know, his poor

wife came in yesterday morning to borrow sixpence, for they hadn't a

loaf of bread or a bit of coal in the house; and Tim was out then,

drinking like a beast. Really I can't help saying such things, George."

"Well this is what I'm told, Susan. He was picked out of the gutter

yesterday evening by some teetotal folks, and taken to one of their

meetings; and, drunk as he was, he signed, and then they saw him home,

and early this morning they were round to see how he was; and anyhow he

declares he is going to stick to it. They've taken him on at the works,

and given him another chance of redeeming his character."

"I'm very glad to hear it, George; and if the teetotal folks keep Tim

Morris out of the gutter, I'll never say another word against them, and

shan't let you either."

"I don't think I shall want to if they do; but I've very little hope,

Susan. It'll be the first time that ever I heard of a man who had sunk

so low being reclaimed."

"Yes; all I've ever given that kind of people credit for doing, is to

get as many little ones into their meetings--Bands of Hope, don't they

call them?--and make them sign the pledge, and as soon as ever they get

to a sensible age, they find out how foolish they've been, and break all

their fine promises. And no wonder, for I don't know how people could

get on without their glass of ale or porter two or three times a day. I

couldn't for one."

"And I'm sure I should be lost without my pint at dinner and supper,"

echoed George, adding: "I guess we're the moderate drinkers teetotalers

rave about."

"Stuff and nonsense," answered Susan. "Why can't they abuse the

creatures who never know when they've had enough for their own good,

without wanting to take one of our necessary comforts from us, when we

pay our way, and are decent, respectable people?"

"That's just what I say, wife. Such folks have neither sense nor reason

on their side. But I can forgive them all their mistakes if they only

turn Tim Morris into a sober man."

"Well, sit down, George, and hold the baby, while I put the tea into the

pot. Go to father, mother's little pet;" and Susan Dixon placed the

well-cared-for baby on her father's knee, where, amidst delighted

screams and plunges, she speedily found congenial employment in burying

her fat dimpled hands in his masses of brown hair.

"There, there, Mattie, won't that do for you, little lass?" said he, as

he gave her back to her mother, crying with disappointment at the sudden

termination of her delightful frolic.

"She does get on well, mother," he added, looking with fatherly pride on

her rounded limbs and rosy cheeks.

"There's no earthly reason why she shouldn't, with all the care that's

taken of her. Oh dear! it makes my heart ache when poor Mrs. Morris

steps in here sometimes, with her sickly-looking child fretting in her

arms, and our Mattie looking so different; I'd rather bury her, George,

than see her like that."

"I tell you, Susan, I think that a man who ruins the health and

prospects of his wife and children ought to be treated as a felon, and

sent to prison until he'd learnt to behave himself as he ought;" said

George.

The conversation turned shortly after upon other matters, and presently,

baby being put to bed, the husband and wife settled down to their usual

pleasant evening; for never since his marriage, two years before, had

George left his wife, after returning from his daily labour, for a

longer space of time than was necessary to fetch the ale for supper from

one of the neighbouring public-houses. They were perfectly happy in each

other, and in the treasure which had been theirs for nine months, and

wondered why every one could not rest contented as they did, in the pure

delight of home joys.

Day after day, week after week, and even month after month passed away,

and still, to George and Susan Dixon's unbounded astonishment, Timothy

Morris kept his pledge, and into his wretched home there began to creep

an air of comfort. Rags gave place to decent clothing, and the children

no longer fled terrified at their father's approach.

"I've got another piece of news for you, Susan," said George one

evening: "Timothy Morris is announced to speak at the Temperance Hall

to-night."

"Well, I never did! What next?" exclaimed his astonished wife.

"Well, I think the next is that, for the pure fun of the thing, I'll go

and hear him, if you don't mind being left alone, my dear."

"Oh, no, not for once, George. Besides, I should like to know what Tim

will have to say for himself; and you'll bring me word, won't you,

dear?" replied Susan.

"Of course I'll do that; but I must be quick, for two of my mates are

going to call and see if I'm coming. I can tell you it's made quite a

sensation among the men to-day."

"I dare say it has," said Susan, bustling about, and hurrying her

husband's tea.

That evening she waited, with the supper-cloth laid, for an hour past

the usual time; and then, wondering what had kept her husband, took her

post at the street door. Soon she caught sight of three men coming down

the road, and at first thought she recognised George's figure in the

moonlight; but hearing from the trio noisy snatches of song and loud

laughing, she smiled at the absurdity of her mistake. But yet, as they

came nearer, the tones sounded strangely familiar. Her heart sank as

they halted before her, and her husband separated from them, and entered

the house, pushing past his wife, and shouting: "Well, good night,

mates; we've not signed the pledge, as our friend Tim advised, and don't

intend to at present."

"George, where have you been all this time?" said Susan, as she followed

him in.

"In the right place for a Briton who never means to be a slave--to be a

slave," he answered thickly.

"If this is what temperance meetings do for you, George, I think you'd

better stay at home," said his wife in displeased tones.

"Don't be high and mighty, my dear; we weren't going to hear Tim Morris

declare that the public-house wasn't a fit place for a respectable man

to put his nose inside, without showing him that he'd made a confounded

teetotaler's mistake; and being three respectable men, we went in, and

took our supper beer there, instead of in our own homes. That's all

right, isn't it?" he asked defiantly.

"If you had stopped at your own supper beer it might have been; but it

looks more than likely that you drank your own and your wife's share

too, judging from appearances," answered Susan bitterly, for she had

been feeling the want of her usual stimulant for some time past.

"You can fetch yours, my dear; I've no objection, I'm sure."

"No objection!" Susan felt outraged. If he had been sober, such a word

could not have fallen from his lips, for he never would permit her to

enter the door of a public-house. There was no help for it now; she must

go, for she could not do without her customary glass, and she dared not

ask George to go, lest he should be tempted to imbibe still more freely

than he had done.

Putting on her bonnet, and seizing a jug, she hurried down the road to

the corner where there were four public-houses blazing with light. She

chose the quietest; and entering the jug and bottle department, found

herself alone, and screened from all eyes, save those of the barmaid,

who stepped forward to take her jug.

"Half a pint, please," said Susan.

Suddenly a thought struck her. If she took her ale home George would be

sure to want some; and she knew that he had already exceeded by far his

usual limit; why should she not stand and drink hers there? There was no

one to see her; no one would ever be the wiser. It would only be just

for once, she told herself, to put temptation out of her husband's way.

"If you'll kindly bring me a glass, I'll drink it here," she said to the

barmaid.

"Certainly, ma'am;" and Susan rapidly drained her glass, and walked home

with her empty jug.

If that night the heavy curtain which shrouded the unknown future could

have been lifted, and to George and Susan Dixon there could have been

revealed their unwritten history, with what shuddering awe would each

have turned from the sin-darkened record, and cried with one of old: "Is

thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?"

FOOTNOTE:

[A] Reprinted, by permission, from "The Opposite House," published by T.

Woolmer, 2 Castle Street, E.C.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

ITS RESULTS.

"WHERE'S mother, Mrs. Warren?" inquired a girl of about seven or eight

years of age, with pallid face, and dress hanging in tatters about her

bare feet, as she slowly dragged up the broken stairs to the one room

where her father and mother, herself, and four younger children lived

and slept.

"You needn't ask me, child. She's locked her door, and the little uns

are inside; and here's the key. I 'spect she's off on a spree." The

child took the key, and sighing heavily, proceeded on her way. Two of

the children were screaming loudly, but ceased their cries as she

entered the room, and began, one to crawl, and the other to toddle,

towards the only being in their little world who never struck or kicked

them, but tended them with the love and gentleness which, but for her,

they would never have known.

"Mammie's left us all alone, Mattie; and Fan and baby has been crying

all the morning, and Bob and me's been doing all we can, and they won't

do nothing but scream," exclaimed the eldest of the four children in

wearied tones.

"That's right, Melie; you're good children; but I've come home, and 'll

look after the lot of you. What's for dinner? Did mammie say?"

"There's some crusts left up on the mantel," answered Melie.

"Bob, you just climb up and fetch 'em down, and I'll nurse the baby,

and, Fan, you come right away and sit by me." Mattie picked up the

dirty, tear-stained baby, and seated herself on the only chair in the

room. She had been to school all the morning, and, while ostensibly

puzzling her little brain with the mysteries of "the three R's," her

heart had been full of fear for those little ones in the house. What if

her mother should leave them with the door unlocked, and Fan and baby

should find their way headlong down those dark, steep stairs? Or,

suppose the window in their room should by any means become unfastened,

and one of them should fall to the pavement beneath; for Mattie

remembered that, only the week before, a drunken mother had let her baby

drop from her arms out of the window at the top of the house into the

court below, from whence it had been picked up a shapeless, bleeding

mass. So she was greatly relieved that everything had gone well in her

absence. As for Fan's and baby's crying, that was to be expected while

she was away.

"I shan't go to school this afternoon; 'taint to be expected as I can,

although teacher'll be just mad, being as it's near 'xamination time,"

declared Mattie.

"That's prime, Mattie! What'll we do? Not stay up here all the time?"

cried Bob.

"In course not. We'll have our dinner, and then we'll just get a breath

of air in the park. It'll do baby good; won't it, darling?" said Mattie,

stooping over her puny charge as fondly as if he were the bonniest baby

in the land, instead of a feeble, wan-faced infant, upon whom, as indeed

upon each of the group which surrounded him, there was stamped the

unmistakable imprint of an inherited curse.

"I'm glad mammie's out, Mattie. I wish you was our mammie, and could

take us clean away," said Bob, hanging about Mattie's chair.

"When I get bigger and can earn money, that's what I'm going to do, you

know, Bob. Me, and Melie, and you'll just work and keep the children,

and we won't have 'em knocked about, poor little mites, will we?"

"No, we won't, but I wish we was big enough now," sighed Bob, to whom

the tempting prospect was sufficiently familiar and delightful to help

him to bear bravely the privation of his daily lot.

"Well, we ain't, so it's no use wishing we was," responded

matter-of-fact Mattie; "but I'll tell you what I do wish, and that is as

mammie and daddie'd just turn over a new leaf, and stop the drinking.

Then we'd never need to be talking of running away and leaving 'em; for

I tell you, we'd all pretty soon know the difference."

"Tell us what a nice home we'd have afore long, and what jolly things

we'd get to eat," said Bob.

"Don't you be so greedy, Bob. 'Tain't the want of good things to eat as

troubles me so much. It's the rows, and the swearing, and the kicking,

and beating, as takes the life out of one," and Mattie's face grew dark

as she spoke.

"Mattie," asked Melie, as she munched away at her crust; "do all mammies

get drunk like ourn?"

"They do about here, I b'lieve," answered Mattie, somewhat dubiously;

"but lor, no, child, in course they don't. There's the lady in the shop

where we buy our penn'orths of bread, as allers is as kind and pleasant

spoken to her little uns as--as--"

A comparison was not speedily forthcoming, but Bob finished his sister's

sentence by saying: "Like you are to all of us, Mattie."

"I'd hate to speak cross to bits of things like you," answered Mattie

loftily, but with a little glow at her heart because of the spontaneous

tribute to her sisterly care. "We'd better be off, I'm thinking," she

said presently, and tying an old rag under the baby's chin by way of

head-gear, she passed her own battered straw hat to Melie, saying:

"You can wear it this afternoon; I'll be quite hot enough carrying baby,

without putting anything on, I guess."

As for Bob and little Fan, the lack of outdoor apparel troubled them not

at all; indeed, the trouble would have been if any such unusual and

uncomfortable addition to their scanty wardrobe had been forthcoming.

Rejoicing in their liberty, and strong in the protection of the elder

sister, they slowly threaded their way through crowded thoroughfares,

until they came to the outskirts of the great manufacturing town, where

the park of which Mattie had spoken was situated.

"That's right! we've got here at last! But you're real heavy, baby, I do

declare," said Mattie, as she sank exhausted on the first seat with her

burden; and although any one else would have considered that, judging

from the said baby's appearance, such a statement was decidedly

unfounded, Mattie being small for her own not very advanced age, might,

for obvious reasons, have been excused for making the rash charge.

"Now, be sure and behave yourselves. Don't get wild, or touch them

pretty flowers, or that man in the buttons there'll be down on us in a

jiffy, and turn us out quicker than we comed in," said Mattie, when they

had rested and recovered themselves after their weary trudge. The

afternoon waned at last, and the children turned their steps homeward.

"I wonder whether mammie's comed home; we'll catch it if she has," said

Melie apprehensively.

"Don't you be a bothering of your head about that," replied Mattie

sharply, turning upon the child, who was lagging behind with her little

sister. "Mammie's safe enough, I'll be bound, somewheres till midnight,

and she'll be too dead drunk when she comes in to do anything but tumble

into a corner like a pig; that's a mercy!"

Melie looked cheered at the information, and trudged on bravely. Just as

they were about to enter their dingy court, Bob caught sight of a man

who was walking slowly down the road with a placard in front of him and

another behind.

"Mattie, just look at that funny man," he exclaimed.

"Oh, haven't you ever seen the likes of him afore? Wait a minute,--and

I'll see what it says on them boards," and Mattie read,--as what girl of

her tender years, however destitute and forlorn, in this age of

educational advantages could not?--"A Band of Hope Meeting will be held

at the ---- Road Board Schools this evening, at half-past six. All

children will be welcome."

"Why, that's my school," said Mattie; "I declare I should like to go,

though what on earth a Band of Hope Meeting is, goodness knows, for I

don't."

"Don't leave us again, Mattie," urged Melie; "we'll be so lonesome by

oursel's."

"Let's see," said Mattie thoughtfully; "it says, 'all children will be

welcome.' I've a good mind to take the lot of you; and if they won't

let us in with baby, why, we can come back again, I s'pose."

"What a heap of treats we are having, Mattie! You're a real good 'un!"

cried Bob, cutting a somersault in view of the unusual and delightful

combination of events.

"You, Bob," called Mattie, somewhat ungraciously it might seem, "stop

that, and help Melie along with Fan."

Tea, which had consisted of the remains from dinner, being over, a

neighbouring church clock chimed the hour, and Mattie prepared for the

evening entertainment. Baby was sleeping, and resented Mattie's attempts

to remove the worst of the grime from his face; but she persevered, for

she felt that the credit of the family was entirely in her hands, and

she was not going to risk losing it for the sake of sundry struggles and

tears from its youngest member. They were all ready at last, and Mattie

surveyed the effect of her handiwork with satisfaction.

"Now, you all jest keep behind me, and don't be grinning, or up to any

of your larks, or they won't let you in," said Mattie, as they neared

the building.

She presented herself before the door with the baby asleep in her arms,

the other children tremblingly bringing up the rear. A gentleman with a

kindly face was standing near the entrance.

"Do you think you can manage your baby, my little woman?" he asked,

stooping to Mattie.

"Bless you, yes, sir. He's better with me than his own mammie, and'll

sleep like a top all the time; and," she added, glancing behind, "these

'ere little uns belong to me too, and if you'll let us all in, I'll see

as they behave theirselves."

"I'm very glad to see you all, my dears, come in;" and, with his heart

aching at the revelation of the misery which was written in unmistakable

characters on the faces of these young children, the gentleman led them

to prominent places near the platform.

Oh, the rich enjoyment of the next hour! The wonderful music, the fine

singing, and the simple words from the two or three gentlemen who were

there, fell upon Mattie's ears with telling effect, and after the

meeting was over, she exchanged a few hurried words with Melie and Bob,

and then they all went forward to the table in front of the platform.

"Please, sir," said Mattie to the secretary who sat there, "you said as

any as wanted to sign against the drink was to come to you after you'd

finished talking; and me, and Melie, and Bob here wants to sign, only

they can't write yet."

"We'll manage that, my dear; but have you thought about this signing and

what it means?"

"Oh, yes, sir; it means as we're never to put our lips to mammie's drops

when we fetch 'em from the public, and never to touch the drink at all."

"Yes, that's quite right," said the secretary, with a half smile. "I see

you know all about it, and will doubtless keep your own pledge; but

what about these little ones? Will they understand and remember that

they mustn't touch the drink when once they've signed against it?"

"Don't you be a-troubling of yourself about them, sir; they're little,

but they're sharp enough, and I'll look after 'em," replied the elder

sister.

"I suppose you're mother, then?" said the secretary, glancing

compassionately down at the sleeping child in Mattie's arms.

"Pretty nigh," answered Mattie, concisely. "Tell me where I've to put my

name; and, Melie, you sit down and hold the baby a minute."

The name was carefully written, and the other children made crosses in

due form, each receiving a bright pledge-card, which they were told to

hang up in their room; then, after receiving an invitation to attend

another meeting of the same kind the following week, they left the

place.

"Well, we've done something now," said Mattie, as they emerged into the

street. "I'll tell you what, if we stick to it, as in course we shall,

we'll have a jolly home one day, with no drinking and no beating; and,

Bob, you'll be able to stuff away on the fat of the land yet."

"Prime!" ejaculated Bob, smacking his lips in gleeful anticipation of

the good time coming.

"We'll get Fan and baby to bed, and then we'll see about hanging our

cards somewheres. They'll not fetch anything at the pop-shop, so mammie

won't be carrying 'em off, that's one comfort."

The three cards were presently hung up, affording a strange contrast to

the begrimed and broken walls; and then the wearied children crept into

their corners, and, on the rags which alone separated them from the

floor, they slept the sleep of innocence and childhood.

There was a staggering step on the broken stairs at midnight, and at the

familiar sound Mattie woke, and drew her baby brother closer to her

protecting arms. The door was pushed noisily open, and some one stumbled

across the room, muttering:

"Where's them brats, I wonder?"

Mattie held her breath, and a moment later she heard a roll on the

floor, and knew that her miserable mother would lie where she had fallen

in drunken slumber until the morning. As for her father, he was seldom

able to mount the stairs; but, if he came home at all, lay at the foot,

until aroused in the morning by his landlady's shrill tones, and ordered

to seek his own room. So Mattie composed herself to sleep again; as,

under such happy circumstances, what drunkard's child might not?

She was awoke next morning by the baby's fretful wail, and, the others

beginning to stir, she sat up and pointed with a warning finger to her

still sleeping mother.

"If you wake her, you'll catch it, you know, so hold your noise now,

and I'll see if I can't get something for you to eat," she hoarsely

whispered.

With stealthy movement she crept to her mother's side, and, finding her

way to the pocket of her dress, she put her hand in and drew out a

solitary penny. Holding it up, and nodding delightedly over her prize,

she picked up the baby and disappeared down the stairs. When she

returned there was a good-sized piece of steaming bread in her hand, and

baby was already ravenously devouring his share.

"Eat it up, quick now, afore she wakes," whispered Mattie; and the

children, nothing loth, soon left not a crumb to be seen.

"We don't often get such luck as that," chuckled Mattie, thinking of

other times when the need had been as great, and not even a penny loaf

wherewith to satisfy the cravings of her hungry charge had been

forthcoming.

"Mammie's waking up," whispered Bob, shrinking back into his corner; and

the little group in silence fixed their fascinated gaze upon the woman

to whom they owed their being, as she yawned and stretched, and,

finally, with a succession of groans, turned over, and faced her

children.

Can it be the same? Are we not doing Susan Dixon a cruel injustice as we

fancy that in yonder bloated face, with its bleared eyes and framework

of dishevelled hair, we can discover a resemblance to the bright, happy

wife, who, seven years before, had been so unsparing in her

condemnation of those who, for the sake of indulging a degraded

appetite, wrecked their own prospects, and blasted the young life and

future happiness of their helpless offspring? Ah, no! for she, who so

proudly had boasted of her own strength, had also been overcome and laid

low by the mighty tyrant.

Little by little, with many a struggle at first, and many a

fair-sounding promise, did she turn from the beaten track she had marked

out for herself, and in the security of which she had prided herself,

until now the very desire for a better life seemed hopelessly crushed

with every trace of womanly feeling. She looked about in a

half-stupified fashion for a while, then raised herself on her elbow,

still continuing to groan.

"What's the matter, mammie?" Mattie ventured to ask.

"My head's fit to burst, child; you must fetch me a drop or I shall just

go crazy," replied Susan, in thick, husky tones.

"Where's the money, mammie?" tremblingly asked the child, well knowing

that the last coin had been spent in their frugal breakfast.

Susan felt in her pocket, and, to Mattie's intense relief, withdrew her

hand, simply saying: "Drat it, every penny gone again! Just like my

luck!"

Her glance went round the room, but there was absolutely nothing within

those four walls which would fetch the price of a morning dram.

Presently her eyes rested upon those three bright patches hanging

against the discoloured wall, with a curious expression of wonder.

"What's them?" she asked at length.

"They're pretty cards as was given us by a gent yesterday, and he said

we was to hang 'em up," answered Mattie, wondering what the effect of

her reply would be, and devoutly hoping that, whatever untimely fate

awaited the cards, she and the little ones might escape with no more

than their usual share of rough and ready treatment.

"Let's look, can't you?" were the next impatient words; and Mattie took

down the three pledges, and, handing them to her mother, stood patiently

by, awaiting the result of the prolonged investigation. She was never

more surprised than when it came. Tossing the cards aside, Susan threw

her hands over her face, and rocked herself backwards and forwards in an

agony of shame and remorse, while floods of tears poured through her

fingers.

Mattie bore the sight as long as she could, and then said: "Don't cry,

mammie; if you're bad, I'll run and fetch the doctor."

But Susan took no notice, and probably had not heard her child's words.

By and bye her tears ceased, and she staggered to her feet, saying: "Oh,

God! that I should have come to this, while he--"

What did her grief, her broken words mean? The children stood aghast;

and, at that juncture, heavy footsteps were heard on the stairs, and

directly the husband and father entered the room; his clear brow,

fearless eye, and manly bearing all gone, and in their stead, darkness,

sullenness, and feebleness.

"What's these?" he asked, for the gaudy cards had been thrown to the

very entrance of the room, and in another moment his foot would have

rested upon them.

Mattie sprang forward and placed them, without a word, in his hands.

Susan crossed the room, and came to her husband's side.

"Who's been putting the brats up to this?" he asked, half angrily,

turning to her.

"I don't know," she answered; "but, oh, George, look at the signature,

and think what that man used to be, and how we couldn't find a name bad

enough for him; and now he's respectable and well-to-do, and me and

you's sunk lower than ever he did. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" and again

Susan's sobs shook the room.

"Timothy Morris, as I live!" exclaimed George Dixon, dropping the cards

in sheer amazement, while upon his mind there rushed a score of

memories, some joyous and bright; others, and these of later days, sad

and sin-shadowed.

"Don't carry on so, Susan," he said; "it makes me feel bad, for I've

been as much in the wrong as you."

[Illustration: "Look at the signature, and think what that man used to

be."--_Page 76._]

"Oh, George, I wouldn't care if I'd only cursed and ruined myself; but

look there!" and she pointed to the five children, who, half

terrified at the scene, were huddling together in the corner.

"Come here, Mattie," she said; "go to your father, child, and ask him if

he remembers the golden-haired, bonnie baby who sat on his knee and

pulled his hair when he came home, nigh upon eight years ago, and told

me that the drunken sot, whose name is on your pledge-card, had turned

teetotal. Ask him if you look like that baby at all. Oh, you needn't

turn away, George, for you know there's but one answer. And what's made

the difference between that happy home, and this beastly place? and

what's made me and you more like brutes than the loving couple we were,

eh, George?"

With streaming eyes Susan stood before her husband, waiting for the

answer to her questions.

Gnashing his teeth, as if in despair, he hissed out: "It's the moderate

drinking as has worked all the mischief, woman, if you want to know; and

may God's curse rest upon it!"

Mattie began to understand at length the meaning of her parents'

distress, and hastened to proffer the only advice that was in her power

to give.

"Daddie, mammie," she said, "won't you come and sign the pledge too?

Then you won't never touch the drink again, and we'll have a nice home;

and me, and Melie, and Bob'll stay with you, and never run away as we've

been a talking of."

Then Melie and Bob came and said: "Oh, please do! We're so hungry and

miser'ble all the time; and if you'll only give up the drink we'll be so

good, and never want any beating."

George looked at Susan across the upturned faces of the children, and

Susan looked back at him wistfully, earnestly.

"Susan," said George, in low, troubled tones; "if I promise now, can I

ever keep my word? for I'm raging for a drop this minute."

Susan might have answered, "So am I," but, with a touch of returning

womanliness, she hid her own suffering that she might minister to the

need of the man who thus confessed his weakness.

"George," she answered steadily, "I had a praying mother once, and so

had you. I once knew how to pray myself, and so did you; and if ever our

mothers' prayers for us are going to be answered, it'll be now; and if

ever we begin to pray for ourselves again, it'll be this very minute, or

we shall be lost for ever!" And Susan fell on her knees, and

passionately poured out her whole soul that forgiveness might be granted

to herself and her erring husband, and that to their weakness and

feebleness there might descend the almighty power and perpetual help of

an Omnipotent Saviour.

Was that prayer answered? Could two souls so bound and tied by Satan's

strongest fetters be loosed and set free, no longer slaves of a tyrant

but children of a King? Let the new home in a new land, and the subdued

brightness of their faces, and the happy abandonment of their children's

glee answer, and say that once again the captives of the mighty have

been taken away, and the prey of the terrible delivered.

In his own land, Timothy Morris hears, from time to time, of the well

doing of his former neighbours; and rejoices that he has been the humble

instrument of bringing light and succour to a household which had been

darkened and degraded for years through the insidious advances of

moderate drinking.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE COMMITTEE'S DECISION.

THE weekly Band of Hope meeting had been carried on through the long

winter months with vigour and success, and now on the evening of one of

the first spring days, its committee had met to decide upon the

all-important question as to whether the meetings should be discontinued

through the summer months.

"I certainly think it would be a pity to hold the meetings on the long

bright evenings," said Mr. Jones, and, judging from the expression on

many of the faces, his opinion was shared by several.

"It would be a downright shame to coop up the children in a close

school-room when they might be enjoying themselves in the bright

sunshine," said Mr. Gale.

It may be here stated that the committee was comprised of equal numbers

of abstainers and non-abstainers, to which latter class the

afore-mentioned speakers belonged. From a corner, a nervous little man

summoned up courage to suggest the possibility of the younger members of

the Band of Hope breaking their pledge, if they had not a constant

reminder in the shape of their attractive weekly meeting.

"That goes to prove what is my firm conviction, that these kind of

affairs, popular as they have become, accomplish little of what they

profess to, for although pledges of total abstinence are taken from the

young folks who attend in large numbers, it only needs a trivial pretext

such as a change of residence, or the suspension of their meetings, and

they become forgetful of the pledge which they have signed," said a

prominent member of the committee.

"You are quite right, my dear sir," replied a middle-aged gentleman

beside him; "as I can testify by my own experience. When I was a lad of

seven or eight, I attended a Band of Hope meeting. Like all children, I

was readily influenced by others, and as most of the little folks who

attended signed the pledge, I did the same. Two or three years

afterwards my parents moved out of the neighbourhood, and it never

occurred to my childish mind that I was just as much bound to keep my

pledge as though I had still been attending the meeting where I signed

it. So I partook with my brothers and sisters of the daily stimulant

which found its way to our table, to the amusement of my father, who had

looked upon my previous self-denial as a boyish whim."

"I believe your experience is by no means an isolated one," added

another member, complacently stroking his beard; "I myself joined at

least two Bands of Hope when I was a youngster; but I don't belong to

the cold-water ranks to-day."

"Come, gentlemen, we are not here to discuss whether the Band of Hope

answers the end it has in view; but whether it is advisable to give its

juvenile members a long summer vacation. Will one of you make a

proposition? and we will take the vote of the meeting," said the

chairman.

The nervous member made an uneasy movement, and looked anxiously around,

but before he could summon up courage to open his mouth, a gentleman,

who had hitherto remained silent, rose, and commenced to speak.

"Mr. Chairman," he began, "I had no intention of making my voice heard

when I came into this meeting, but my soul is too deeply stirred to

allow me to preserve silence. Sir, it has been suggested that Bands of

Hope accomplish little of what they profess to do, and in proof of that,

two of our non-abstaining friends have readily confessed that in their

boyhood they were associated with Bands of Hope. Sir, there doubtless is

a percentage of children who carelessly or ignorantly take upon

themselves these solemn vows, and fail to fulfil them. I may add that

to my knowledge, many a drunkard has gone down to his dishonoured grave

uttering the impotent wish that he had kept the pledge of his childhood.

But, sir, I am in a position to say that such percentage is very small,

and that the juvenile temperance movement in this country is doing a

mighty work. We are saving the children, and sending into many a

sin-darkened home, the little ones as messengers of hope and salvation.

And not alone into poverty-stricken courts and alleys, but into abodes

of the better classes where the drink demon has asserted his supremacy,

do our youthful members find their way. Yet, sir, I am not ashamed to

say, that these children need the reminder of their weekly meeting. They

are but weak, and temptation is oftentimes strong, whether conveyed to

them by the sight and smell of the intoxicants which many of them have

to fetch, or, as in the case of our friend who has spoken, placed upon

the well-spread table within their easy reach. Sir, if for the summer

months we could compel the publicans, and all who are licensed to sell

alcohol in any shape or form, to close their premises, and take a long

vacation, and could we during that time banish from the homes of our

land every temptation to strong drink, then we might afford to give up

our meetings for the next few months; but while the monster Intemperance

is ceaselessly devastating homes and blighting lives in all classes and

communities, let us not dream of giving our endeavours to meet and

vanquish the strong man armed a summer holiday."

The speaker wiped his brow and sat down, and significant glances went

round the room. When a minute later the votes were taken, there were

found to be only two members who did not cordially agree with the

proposal that the meetings of the Band of Hope should be continued all

through the year.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE RIGHT HAND THAT OFFENDED.

"EH, lass, but thou'rt a bad un ter be talkin' o' turnin' a new leaf;

with t' cursin', swearin' toongue, and t' drinkin' waays, dost think

it's gooin' ter be so foine and eaasy ter gi'e t' all o'er in sich a

moighty hoory?"

The question was addressed by a stalwart labouring man to his wife, as

he stood in the doorway of his little cottage, one of a few that nestled

at the foot of one of the Yorkshire hills, and from which could be seen

stretching yet further below, the smoky chimneys of a large

manufacturing town, in such as which England's wealth and commercial

prosperity are so largely centred.

"Lad, thee moight well woonder at a wicked wench loike thy lass talkin'

o' gettin' saaved; ay, and thee may sneer as mooch as thee loikes; aw

mun reeap as aw ha' sowed, and aw deserve thy haard woords, and

thee'll't not foind me makkin' ony raash booast; but aw mun saay ter

thee 'at, He who saaved t' thief on t' cross caanst saave a big sinner

loike me; ay, and keep me from t' swearin' and t' drinkin'," answered

his wife, who was busily engaged in sweeping a filthy floor, preparatory

to bestowing upon the blackened stones a hearty scrubbing.

"Weel, aw'll not heender thee, loike some 'ud do, if thee'll't see ter

my comforts as thou hast t' mornin'," replied John Ibbetson, thinking

with satisfaction of the unaccustomed luxury of a well-prepared

breakfast, which had been awaiting him on his arrival from his work

close by, at an early hour, that same morning. Pursuing his way thither

again, he thought of the strange events that had been crowded into a

short space of time. The invitation to the preaching of an evangelist in

the Mission Room on the hill-side, that had been given to his wife

yesterday morning; the call of a kindly-disposed neighbour, who herself

regularly attended the little room, just before the evening service

commenced; and then the sight he had witnessed of the neat, respectable

neighbour, and his ill-clothed, dirty wife, going up the hill together.

He thought of the strange scene that met his view on his return to his

home after spending the evening hours as usual with a neighbour, smoking

and conversing on the topics of the day, for John prided himself that

his figure had never darkened the doorway of the wretched tavern that

was his wife's continual resort.

"T' lass knows all about t' inside o' t' beastly plaace, and 'at's

enoogh for me," he would say in reply to any invitation from its many

frequenters to join them in their social evenings. He never went nearer

than when compelled. Occasionally he waited at some little distance for

the stumbling figure of his wife, in order to help her along the

solitary path that led to their miserable dwelling. But no such task lay

before him when he left his neighbour's cheerful fireside; neither was

his wife lying in a state of helpless intoxication across the bed; nor

was she even sitting muddled and stupified, waiting his arrival to make

the cottage resound with her oaths, when he should refuse to supply her

with the means for further revelry and drunken debauch. In the usually

empty grate a glowing fire shed its warmth and radiance through the

room; on the table there was a jug of steaming coffee, and a pile of

bread and butter; and, strangest of all, on the well-swept hearth were

his dilapidated slippers warmed and ready, and close beside them his

chair, evidently drawn from its corner in expectation of his arrival.

Half suspicious of some new design against his peace, he looked

dubiously around, and only ventured to say: "Thou'rt home early, lass,

t' neaght?"

"Ay, lad, thou sayest it; and more's t' shame, 'at aw've ever been

aught but hoom ter greeat thee; aw've gotten good oop at yond meetin'

hoose t' neaght, and aw've proomised t' Looard and t' fouks 'at aw'll

gie oop t' alehoose and t' drink; aw've been a bad woife ter thee, and a

weecked mother ter t' childer; but t' Looard in mercy ha' forgi'en me

all my seens; and aw'm 'at happy aw could daance for t' joy. Dost heear

me, lad?" she continued, as her husband stared in dumbfounded fashion at

her.

"Thee may weel stare thee een oot wi' wonner, for aw waalked streeaght

ter t' tap yonder, and thinkin' ter mysen, now t' Looard ha' weshed my

blaack heaart t' least aw could do 'ud be t' wesh my blaack faace, aw

didn't gi'e o'er rubbin' and scrubbin' till aw left thee little enoogh

sooap t' wesh thysen coom t' mornin', and t' floor 'lt ha' its turn t'

morrow."

"Lass, if 'at thee's been saayin' be true, then aw mun saay t' Looard,

aboot whom thee taalks so glib, 'll ha' His haands full to keeap thee

oot o' meescheef for a while; it's a seaght more nor aw could do," said

John, at length finding his voice.

"Thou'rt reaght enoogh, lad; but His hands are aye poowerful, so aw'm

toold. Maybe, thee 'ud goo ter t' chapel wi' me to-morrow neaght, and

hear t' preachin'; it's wonnerful and foine," and then Jane handed a

steaming cup of coffee to her husband, and waited his reply with some

trepidation, for, in her simple soul, there had already sprung up the

desire, sure proof of the reality of the Spirit's work in any heart

that another should partake of the new life that had come to her.

"See thee, lass; thee'lt just stop 'at koind o' taalk: aw'll not goo to

yond plaace coom a greeat while; thee'lt have ter show t' work's reeal

wi' thee, afore thee sees me walkin' oop t' hill aside o' thee; aw've no

drinkin', swearin' waays ter gi'e o'er, thee knows," said John.

"Ay, ay, John, 'at's true, and thou'st been paatient and forbearin' wi'

me, and wi' God's help, aw'll mak' thee a better woife in t' future, and

mebbe when thou see'st what religion's done for me, thou'lt tak' thy

waay wi' me oop to yond little room," hopefully replied Sarah.

Well might John Ibbetson pursue his way as in a dream, with such a new

experience of domestic comfort to engage his thoughts; yet, reaching the

farm on which he worked, he drew a deep sigh as he turned to his

ploughing, and muttered: "Ay, it proomises fair, but t' lass'll never

hoold oot aw'm feared."

"Lad," said his wife, as they sat at tea before the shining grate;

"thou'lt not saay aught agaainst me gooin' to t' meetin' to-noight; aw'm

but weeak, and t' seaght o' t' happy faaces oop yonder'll do me a power

o' good; aw'll settle doon to spend t'neaghts wi' thee, if thou wilt, by

and bye."

"Go where thou wilt, and welcoom, lass, if 'twill help thee to keeap

from t' alehouse," replied John, too wise to utter the surprise that

nearly overwhelmed him on hearing his hitherto unmanageable wife appeal

to him for permission to spend the evening away from her home, the

claims of which had been so completely disregarded by her in the past.

As the weeks went by John's fears respecting his wife's steadfastness

seemed likely to be unrealised; for, under the inspiration of her new

life, the home, her children, and herself underwent a thorough

reformation, and her husband began to breathe freely as he marked the

visible signs of the change in his wife's heart. But many a wise head

was significantly shaken, and many a sage tongue whispered: "Bide a

while, and ye'll see it 'll all end i' smooke; Saarah Ann Ibbetson's

looved her coops too weel to gi'e un oop in sooch a hurry."

It was Sunday evening, and Mrs. Ibbetson was seated beside her fireside,

spelling out with great pains the last part of the chapter which had

been read before the sermon at chapel that night. It was the ninth

chapter of St. Mark's Gospel, and she had commenced at the thirtieth

verse, but had not found the passage which had troubled and surprised

her whilst hearing it read; but travelling down the verses with her

forefinger pointing to each line, lest her eye, unaccustomed to the

task, should mislead her, and some of the sacred words be passed over

unread, at last she reached the forty-third verse.

"It's un!" she triumphantly exclaimed.

"Eh, but it's a haard un!" was her verdict when she had finished it; "Aw

'll raad un agaain;" and she read: "And if thy hand offend thee, cut it

off: it is better for thee to enter into life maimed, than having two

hands to go into hell, into the fire that never shall be quenched."

She put the Bible away, and gazing into the fire, mused aloud: "Aw'm

daazed aboot yond text; aw never heeard loike on't; but aw'm thinkin'

it's only fair; if t' reet hand offeends cut un off, and serve un reet

too. T' blessed Looard, He knows all about it, He does, and He'd raather

see His childer waalk inter t' glory wi' one hand than know they'd gone

doon inter yond daarkness wi' their two seenful hands ter burn ter all

'ternity; ay, it's plaain enoogh for a poor eegnorant lass loike mysen

to get un," and having settled the difficult question to her own

satisfaction, without the aid of commentators, Sarah Ann rose and

bustled about getting her husband's supper.

John Ibbetson was hurrying home one night shortly after the above

occurrences pleasantly anticipating the now usual sight of a clean

hearth, a waiting supper, and a welcoming wife; but pushing open the

door he found the room in total darkness, and on striking a light he saw

it was unoccupied.

"Maybe t' lass 'as grown weary and gone ter bed," said John to himself,

resolutely turning from a horrible fear that fell coldly on his heart.

Taking up the candle he stepped into the sleeping room, but the bed was

undisturbed, and he came back into the kitchen, muttering: "T' chapel's

all daark and cloosed, where can t'lass be? anyhow aw'll gi'e a look

roound," and taking up his hat, John passed into the darkness without.

Shrieks and shouts, alas! too well known to be mistaken, fell on his

ear. Hastening forward he took his wife from the hands of those who were

bringing her towards her home; but she broke from him, and staggering on

with uncertain footsteps, entered the cottage first. He relit the

candle, then facing her with folded arms and a stern brow, as she

dropped into a chair, he said: "So thee'st been at t' cursed drink

agaain, after all t' foine proomises, and thee a-foolin me, poor daft un

'at I be, to a' gi'en ear ter all thou'st had ter say. What deevil has

been temptin' thee, lass, to-neet, to forget all t' chapel goin' and t'

friends who ha' looked after thee so weel?"

But the only answer that Sarah Ann seemed capable of making was the

reiteration: "Aw've got ter cut un off, lad; aw'll cut un off, t' wicked

haand;" and the poor woman struck at the offending member with such

savage force, that her husband interfered and dragged her in sullen

despair to her bed.

He awoke the next morning with a burden on his heart that he could not

account for, until the recollection of the events of the previous night

flashed into his mind.

"Eh, but she's a reet down bad un; what's t' use o' me pullin' one waay,

and her t' other; t' poor childer's just dragged oop by t' hair o' t'

head; aw'll ha' no more on't, aw've gi'en her her chances o'er and o'er,

but she's coom ter t' end o' tether at laast; t' wicked hussy shaal

goo," the poor fellow groaned; and with this resolve firmly fixed in his

mind, he turned out of bed, and betook himself to the kitchen. There, to

his unbounded astonishment, was his wife, whom he had missed, sitting

beside the fire, with her arms folded in her apron, and bearing on her

face the impress of keen suffering. On the table there was a cup and

saucer placed for him, and the kettle was hissing and steaming on the

glowing coals.

"Tak' summat afore thee goos to woork, lad; aw caan't help thee mysen,

till t' pain's a bit o'er," said Sarah Ann in a trembling voice,

watching her husband's face in evident fear.

"Aw want nought ter eat; thou'lt not soft sooap me so eaasy," replied

John, gruffly; but looking at her again, he said: "What's the maatter

wi' thee noo?"

"See thee, lad," and the woman uncovered her apron, and revealed a

sickening sight; a right hand, blackened, shrivelled, and quivering with

the torture of the fiery ordeal through which it had been made to pass.

Strong man though he was, John Ibbetson staggered back in horror.

"Lass," gasped he, with his eyes yet riveted, spell-bound, on the

hideous spectacle; "lass, what hast thee done wi' t' poor haand?"

"Fetch yond Bible from t' shelf, lad, and read t' neanth chaapter o'

Maark, and t' forty-third verse."

John obeyed, and read aloud the verse which had been the subject of his

wife's meditations a few Sabbath evenings before.

"Noo, lad, aw'll tell thee all aboot it. Thee'd just goon ter woork

yester morn, when Emma Ward stepped in, and 'Lass,' she said, 'thee mun

coom oop t' hill wi' me, for Jim Green's little un's deein', and t'

mother's well nigh craazed;' thee knows aw couldn't be unneeboorloike,

so aw good, and gi'ed a helpin' haand, and they o'er persuaded me ter

tak' a glass o' waarm speerit to keep t' cold oot, and I set my faace

against it at first, but it looked so temptin', at aw stretched oot t'

reet haand and finished glaas cleean off, and coomin' hoom, deevil, he

saaid: 'thee ud best feenish oop at t' ale-hoose,' and aw were paarched

for more o' cursed stoof, and t' knows t' rest; and coom t' morn, aw

saaid, 'Aw'll cut un off, t' reet haand 'at took glaass, for aw'll goo

inter t' kingdom maimed sooner aw'll goo to yond plaace o' daarkness wi'

my two haands,' and aw'd gotten t' axe ter chop un off, when aw thowt o'

thee and the childer, and how thee and them 'ud miss t' haand, and aw

coomd baack ter kitchen, and said: 'Aw'll gi'en a good lesson, anyhow;

aw'll gi'en a taaste o' t' fire as'll mind un o' t' fire 'at burns for

aye', and aw put un in and held un in, and thee 'lt ha'e ter see ter

thy own meals coom a while, and if t' nasty thing offends again aw'll

cut un off, and thee'lt ha' ter do t' best thee can for thysen, for

aw've promised to mind all t' Book says;" and Sarah Ann turned the apron

carefully over the poor maimed hand, and rocked herself to and fro, in

her cruel pain.

"Thee's a braave lass; and if thou'rt gooin' ter turn t' faace from t'

drink agaain, aw'll hould on ter thee, and help thee; but thee'st been

reeadin' t' Bible oopside doon, aw reeckon; aw never heeard tell o'

fouks maimin' theirsens in looike faashion; thee'ud best get paarson ter

mak' t' verse reet;" and John walked away to his work with new thoughts

stirring in his breast; and a tenderness, to which it had long been a

stranger, swelling within his heart at the remembrance of his suffering

wife, who was so earnest in her purpose of breaking through the power of

evil habit, and, at all costs, finding her way into the kingdom of

heaven.

"T' lass shall not goo alone," was his decision at length, and John

Ibbetson made up his mind that next Sabbath he and his wife would walk

up the hill in company, and for the first time since their marriage,

enter the house of God together.

The news spread like wildfire through the village that "John Ibbetson's

lass had well-nigh burned her hand ter t' bone for tamperin' wi' t'

drink agaain;" and in the forenoon of the same day, the neighbour who

had persuaded Sarah Ann to accompany her to that special service where

a new life had dawned for her some months before, called to see what

truth there was in the tale.

As soon as she had entered the door Mrs. Ibbetson greeted her.

"Aw thowt thee 'ud coom, Jane; hast t' heard aw got at t' drink last

een? but," she said, holding up her mutilated hand in triumph, "Aw've

gi'ed un a good waarmin' for its sen."

"Eh, but it's an awfu' burnin'!" exclaimed the neighbour; "dost think,

thou poor lass, at 'll keep thee from t' drink?"

"If it doesn't, then aw mun cut un off, for t' Book saays it, and aw'm

bound to mind what t' Book saays," answered Mrs. Ibbetson.

"Saarah Ann," said her startled neighbour; "If thee thinks 'at t' good

Looard bids thee hurt and maim thysen, thou'st maade a mistaak."

"Nay, Jane, didn't preacher saay t' other neet from t' Book: 'If t' reet

haand offeend thee, cut un off'? ay, and aw foound un, and reead un

mysen when aw coomed hoom, and it's no mistaake, lass," said Mrs.

Ibbetson eagerly.

"But thee hast maade an awfu' mistaake, Saarah Ann; t' wooards be there,

sure enoogh, but they doan't mean fowks mun goo cuttin' and hackin' at

their own flesh. T' blessed Looard were poonished for t' sin o' t'

world, and we've no reet ter be thinkin' we mun poonish oursen for our

fro'ard waays."

Puzzled and dumbfounded, poor Sarah Ann looked at her visitor for a

while, and then asked despondingly:

"And what do yond woords mean, Jane?"

"Aw'll mak' it plaain ter thee, Saarah Ann; see here! t' knows t' good

o' t' reet haand; thee never puts t' left ter aught if t' reet 'll do t'

wooark, and t' Looard knows there be many a sin 'at's loike t' reet

haand ter His fouks, and there's many a fouk as 'ud saay o' t' drunkin',

swearin' waays: 'Aw can't gi'e un oop; aw mun ha'e a drop, or rap oot t'

oath soom while, and t' good Looard 'll forgi'e un and let un inter t'

kingdom by and bye;' but what does t' good Looard saay?"

"Cut un off, cut un off," called out Sarah Ann, who had been hanging on

her neighbour's interpretation with open mouth.

"Ay, lass, thee sees it, and thee mun be willin' to cut un off before t'

Looard 'll gi'e thee His forgiveness, and let thee inter t' kingdom o'

His graace below; thee knows now 'at He never meant t' poor haand ter

suffer for t' sin o' t' soul; if thee sins thee 'lt suffer; but thou mun

never tak' t' poonishment o' thysen agaain; thou'lt cut off t' drink,

lass; thou mun promise 'at ter t' Looard and t' fouks."

"Ay, ay, Jane, aw'll promise 'at! aw'm not loike to forget coom a greeat

while wi' t' hand ter mind me," said Sarah Ann, looking regretfully down

at the useless member.

"Aw'll see to curin' un; aw've soom rare ointment oop at hoom; aw'll

fetch un, and then aw'll coom and redd oop for thee;" and so saying Jane

left the house, and sore as her bodily anguish was, Sarah Ann knelt and

thanked the Lord that He had borne the punishment for all her sins; and

once more, in a very ignorant fashion, doubtless, but in earnestness and

singleness of purpose, she gave herself to Him to be kept from her

besetting sins; promising, in His strength, to "cut un off," now and for

ever, and we are glad to say the promise was faithfully kept.

When her neighbour returned with healing appliances, she listened with

heart-felt praises on her own lips to the song of praise that was being

raised, and joined in words that to her had long been sweetly familiar:

"My Jesus, I love Thee, I know Thou art mine;

For Thee all the pleasures of sin I resign;

My gracious Redeemer, my Saviour art Thou;

If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus 'tis now."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

"OUT OF THE WAY."

"THAT was a fine sermon, Herbert! A masterpiece of eloquence and

forceful teaching combined," said Mrs. Green to her husband, as they

walked home one Sunday morning after service.

A look of pain crossed the good deacon's face, and he answered:

"I have news which will surprise you, Mary. My own suspicion and that of

my brother deacons has been fully confirmed this morning."

"What suspicion," asked Mrs. Green quickly.

"That our pastor has for some time past given way to the allurements of

strong drink."

"Oh, that is too dreadful! it cannot be true; so good, devoted, and holy

a man as I have always thought him to be!"

"It is certainly true. Unfortunately, drink spares none, and the more

noble and exalted its victims, the more sure and complete is their

downfall. It will seem incredible to you; but the truth is, Mr. Harris

preached this morning under the influence of liquor. He had been

drinking before he came into the vestry, and was trembling and scarcely

able to stand. He said he had been suffering with neuralgia, and asked

for a glass of wine to steady his nerves. I said, 'Excuse me, Mr.

Harris, it is painfully apparent that you have already indulged too

freely in stimulant.' He looked convicted, and covered his face; but

presently stammered out something about his excessive intellectual

labours compelling him to resort to alcohol. Mr. Shaw then said: 'We

would far rather listen to simpler preaching, Mr. Harris, than know that

your brilliant discourses are composed and delivered under the stimulus

of wine.' He promised to be more careful in the future; but declared

that it was quite impossible for him to face the large congregation

unless he could gain a little self-command; and truly he was in a

pitiable condition. It was close upon service time, and there was no

alternative but to give him more wine. To my surprise, immediately

afterwards he mounted the pulpit stairs steadily, and conducted the

service, as you know, with the utmost propriety. But we are resolved

that he must either give up the practice of taking stimulant, or leave

the church."

"Oh, Herbert! I'm overwhelmed. Mr. Harris has helped me in my spiritual

life as no one else has, and it seems impossible that he could give way

to such an awful sin as drunkenness," and Mrs. Green dashed away the

tears of sympathy that had fallen, and resolved to hope and pray that

her beloved pastor might break from the fatal habit which was making him

its victim. But months went by, and Mr. Harris was found to be indulging

in still deeper excess, until the story of his downfall was on every

lip. Again and again he vowed reformation, and before God and his people

humbled himself; but he lacked the needful courage to put the poisonous

cup entirely away. "I must take a little, only a little," he said, and

that little continually asserted its power to entice and ensnare.

Couched in terms of Christian sympathy and forbearance, his dismissal

from the flock, over whom for years he had tenderly watched, came at

length. He was sitting in his study bending over it in remorse and shame

when a knock was heard at his door, and a brother minister entered.

"Just in time to witness my degradation," he exclaimed bitterly. "Look

here, Shafton! it has come to this! What will become of my wife and

children now?"

The Rev. Ernest Shafton laid his hand upon the shoulder of his brother,

perused in silence the official paper before him, and then walked to the

window. Deeply cogitating, he stood there for some time, while Mr.

Harris's face grew darker, and he muttered, "Turned against me, like

every one else! Well, it's my own doing."

"Harris," said Mr. Shafton, suddenly, "do you know what this means for

you, my poor fellow?"

"Ruin, I suppose," was the gloomy answer.

"Ay, ruin for time and eternity--having preached to others to become

yourself a castaway; but you will not suffer alone, Harris. Your gentle,

refined wife will be plunged from comfort to penury; your beautiful,

promising children will know the cruel shifts of poverty; will hear

their father's name uttered in accents of contempt by a scoffing world;

will watch his downward career with fear and loathing, and yet, oh! mark

my words, will probably follow in his footsteps, drag out miserable

existences, and eventually fill drunkards' graves."

"God forbid! God forbid! anything but that," exclaimed the startled

minister, rising in great agitation and pacing the room.

"God does forbid; but you Harris, are paving your children's road to

ruin. Come, I have a proposal to make. By God's help, I will save you if

you will let me."

"Do what you will, I am ready to submit to anything," groaned the

trembling man.

"I will use all my influence to change this dismissal into a long

suspension of duties. Meanwhile, you shall leave your home and come and

stay with me, and I will stand beside you while you fight in God's

strength against your foe; but, my brother, you must pledge yourself to

abstain from all intoxicants, now and for ever. Say, are you resolved,

for the sake of your wife and children, and your own eternal happiness,

to put the accursed thing beneath your feet?"

There was a solemn pause, and in the silence a woman's step crossed the

floor, and gentle hands twined round the erring man's neck.

"Jessie, help me, decide for me now," he cried.

Ernest Shafton repeated his proposal to the wife, asking if she would

second his efforts to save her husband, by her willing consent to leave

him in the care of his friend for a year, or longer if needful, until

his reformation were effected.

"A year, did you say? a lifetime, if necessary," was the instant reply.

Stooping to her husband's ear she whispered, "Go, dear Henry, and in

God's strength fight and conquer. Let no regretful thought turn towards

me, for I shall be content.

"'While thee I see

Living to God, thou art alive to me!'"

"You are an angel, Jessie!" exclaimed the man, holding his wife's hands

and falling on his knees. Cries for forgiveness for the past and help

for the future broke from him as he knelt, and his prayer was heard and

answered. In years that followed he looked back upon that memorable hour

as the turning-point in his history, and thanked God for the friendly

hand that was reached out to save a brother from the abyss which yawned

at his feet. Once again he filled an honoured position as the pastor of

a large and influential church. Once again he passed in and out of the

houses of the people, the beloved friend and ready helper of rich and

poor; but in addition to former labours he became everywhere known as

the advocate of Total Abstinence for young and old, and so persistent

were his efforts in this direction, that many of the deacons and

influential men of his church became rigid adherents of the good cause.

"Sir," said one upon whom all the pastor's arguments had apparently been

wasted; "Mr. Harris, why can't you let us non-abstainers alone? Let us

go our way, and we will accord you the same liberty of action."

Mr. Harris's brow clouded with some painful recollection, and he said

with much feeling: "You compel me to refer to the past. Allow me very

tenderly, but faithfully to remind you that you did not accord me

'liberty of action' in times gone by."

"What do you mean?" inquired the astonished deacon.

"Forgive me for seeming to be ungrateful for the kindness which alone

prompted you; but, oh, my dear friend, remember how in years, that,

thank God, are past, you and your brother deacons, equally hospitable

and kind-hearted, never allowed me to decline your offer of wine or

spirits. If I paid you a call before preaching, you insisted that I

needed to be stimulated for my work, and pressed me to accept the best

wine your cellars could supply. If I dropped in on my way home, I was

sure to be looking white and exhausted, and must therefore take 'just

one glass' to restore my energies. Heat and cold, rain and sunshine, joy

and sorrow, all afforded you an excuse for compelling me to partake of

the fatal cup. Your wines found their way to my table in abundance. Many

a time I sought to refuse your false kindness; but you know how deeply I

should have grieved you if I had not accepted your hospitality. From the

day I first entered upon my pastorate as a moderate drinker, I felt that

it was considered a personal slight if I visited any house and refused

the proffered wine. Can you wonder that I grew to feel it a necessity?

that presently I stumbled and fell, and for a time was 'out of the way

through strong drink'? Oh, my brother, let me beg, that, if you cannot

banish intoxicants from your home, you will at least refrain from

pressing them upon others, lest you cause a weaker brother to offend."

Deeply agitated, the deacon wrung his pastor's hand, abruptly leaving

him with the broken words: "Forgive me--I--didn't mean--didn't

know--you've won me over at last."

"What is the matter, my dear?" asked Mrs. Green in alarmed tones, as a

few minutes later her husband entered the room where she was working,

and throwing himself into a chair, buried his face in his hands. The

deacon only groaned. "Surely there is nothing wrong with our minister

again," said his wife, knowing that her husband had recently been in the

company of Mr. Harris.

"No, no, and if so, I, and such as I, would have been to blame, as we

were years ago, God forgive us!" Mrs. Green looked at her husband,

half-believing that under some sudden strain his mind had lost its

balance.

"What do you mean? It was Mr. Harris's own fault that he gave way to

drink, and you should remember that you and his other deacons were

faithful in your constant warnings and long-suffering with him beyond

what might have been expected."

"We, and only we, caused his downfall, and then reproached him for the

disgrace he had brought upon our church," gloomily responded the deacon.

"You are speaking in enigmas; do explain yourself, Herbert," impatiently

urged his wife.

In answer, Mr. Green repeated the words of his pastor, which had made so

deep an impression upon his own mind. When he had finished he looked up

to find that his wife's tears were dropping upon the work which had

fallen from her hands.

"Oh, how guilty we have been, Herbert! Well do I remember how persistent

I always was in my offers of stimulant to our minister in years gone

by, and when he declined I pretended to be hurt, and said he must not

refuse anything a lady offered, for she would be sure to know what was

good for her guest; and then when I conquered, and he reluctantly took

the glass from my hands, I felt so exultant, and all the while I was

luring him on to the ruin, which might have been eternal."

Mrs. Green broke down utterly, and there was a suspicious huskiness in

her husband's voice as he spoke: "Yes, we are indeed guilty, and we may

have been no less so in many other instances. Verily, the blood of souls

is on our garments. Mary, what shall we do?"

"Can you ask, Herbert? I don't mind how inhospitable it may appear; but

I am resolved never again to offer stimulants to our guests, lest I make

the same fatal mistake."

"That is well said, my dear; but--but--shall we agree to refrain from

offering intoxicants to callers, and the visitors who occasionally sit

at our table, lest we place temptation in their way, while every day

those dearer than our life sit and partake with us of the cup which I

now believe to possess such fatal allurements? If we have decided no

longer to tempt our guests, shall we continue to tempt our innocent

children, to whom we stand in their early years as their sole medium of

light and knowledge? Think, Mary, if a few years hence one of our boys

could truthfully say to us what our pastor has just said."

"Don't say any more; I can't bear it, Herbert."

For a few moments there was silence. Then Mrs. Green spoke again: "There

is only one step to be taken; from this day all intoxicants must be

banished from our home. Neither our children nor our friends must ever

have further opportunity of stumbling over our well-meaning but cruel

kindness. God, who knows how blindly and ignorantly we have sinned in

the past, will surely grant His forgiving mercy to us, and help us in

the future to wage successful battle against this subtle foe who has

had, till now, his acknowledged place in our house."

"Thank God for that decision; my heart already feels lighter. From this

time I will take my stand beside Mr. Harris in his noble Temperance

work, and so far as I can, help to repair the wrong we have done him.

May God speed our efforts!"

"Amen!" reverently whispered Mrs. Green.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

TIM MALONEY'S PIG.

"OCH, thin, mate, an' yer don't appair to be takin' kindly to yer wark

the morn! Shure, an' I'm rale 'shamed uv ye, afther yer day's

plasurin'," remarked Tim Maloney, a broad-shouldered, good-tempered

looking Irishman, to his fellow-workman, who, with sundry grunts and

ejaculations expressive of discontent with the world in general, and his

own hard-working existence in particular, had just lazily emptied his

hod of bricks at the feet of Tim, who was briskly disposing of them,

with many dexterous pats and turns of his trowel, as he laid them, one

by one, upon the wall he was engaged in building. It was early in the

morning of the day following a public holiday; and, of all the workmen

employed upon the block of houses in course of erection, only Tim

Maloney and John Jarvis had made their appearance, the latter of whom

seemed none the better for the previous day's cessation from toil.

He answered gloomily:

"All very well for the likes of you, Tim Maloney, to be chaffin' a

feller; but I'd like to know if you'd feel fit to kill yerself with work

if you'd been draggin' about the day afore with the missis a scoldin',

and half a dozen brats at yer heels as gave yer no peace, a spendin' of

yer hard-earned money, and seein' nought for it."

Tim picked up a brick, and placed it tenderly in the mortar bed he had

just prepared, then said:

"An' isn't it bacomin' that the wife uv yer bossum and the childer

should share yer holiday, an' hilp yer to spind yer money, me bhoy?"

"I can't say as it isn't," frankly replied John; "but some wives is

different to others; and mine just nags and worrits and gives a feller

no peace of his life, and the children takes after her."

"Shure, an' what does she nag and worrit ye about thin?" asked Tim, with

a twinkle in his eye; but at that moment John shouldered his empty hod

and disappeared.

"The ould sthory, shure an' certin," muttered Tim, and in his honest,

kindly heart, for the hundredth time, revolved many a scheme for helping

and stimulating his fellow-workman to a better life.

The breakfast bell presently rang, and John Jarvis, who lived at a

little distance, threw himself at full length upon some boards,

grumbling at his wife for being late with his breakfast.

"Maybe she's wearied herself wid followin' ye an' yer half dozen brats

yester," dryly suggested Tim, as he threw down his trowel and strode

away to his cottage home close by, where a plentiful meal awaited him.

Certainly, when he met Mrs. Jarvis the next minute, she looked

sufficiently white and fagged to justify his suggestion.

"Mornin' to ye," he said, nodding and hurrying by.

But Tim's cottage lay in Mrs. Jarvis's homeward way, and as her lagging

footsteps passed the door, the buxom form of Tim's wife appeared.

"Come in, an' rist ye a spell, Mrs. Jarvis; ye look more fit for yer bed

nor to be draggin' about at all, at all."

"It's just what I am. I'm sure I don't know what's coming to me,"

exclaimed Mrs. Jarvis, as she dropped into a chair.

"Give her a dhrop uv tay, Peggy, an' she'll ravive a bit," said Tim.

"You're very kind, Tim. Why, this tea is real good, as good as what the

gentry drinks. I feel quite a different creature after it, I declare;"

and Mrs. Jarvis presently set down her empty cup with a surprised air.

"I can't think how you manage, Mrs. Maloney. Here's your husband earning

the same wages as mine, yet you can afford to live a sight better than

us; you're better dressed too, and what a fine place you've got; and

isn't that pig in the garden yours?"

Mrs. Jarvis's eyes had roamed from the bright, clean kitchen, through

the open window to the well-stocked garden, where, in a corner, stood a

sty, the occupant of which was rooting and grunting in the manner

peculiar to his kind.

"Indade, an' ye're rayte; a fine porker he is too. I'll sind ye up a bit

whin we kill, an' ye shall tasthe for yerself."

"Thank you kindly, Tim. It's not often we can afford to indulge in a bit

of bacon now. Times are so hard, you see," returned Mrs. Jarvis, with a

look of still deeper perplexity upon her face as she rose to go.

Tim whispered to his wife who nodded, and then turned to Mrs. Jarvis,

saying:

"Now, don't ye be thrudgin' up wid yer husban's bit uv dinner. My Tim'll

bring him home, an' he's kindly wilcome to the bist of our purvidin'."

Mrs. Jarvis was certainly weak and unnerved, for she fell back into her

seat and began to sob.

"Whist, now, did ye think we mane to pisin yer good man?" said Tim,

cheerily.

"No, no, indeed; but I don't know what to make of such kindness. It's

nothing but cross words and scowling looks I ever get."

Tim sat down with a determined air.

"Jist dhry yer eyes, me dear, and listhen to me; bekase I mane it all

for yer good, and Jack's too, poor bhoy!"

Tim continued: "Ye're both uv ye makin' a therrible big misthake that'll

ruin ye in time an' etarnity. Here's Jack, a sheer lump uv misary, wid

no heart for wark nor play, an' here's yerself a frettin' an' a pinin'

yer life away; an' yer poor childer's like to thread in yer stheps. An'

here's mesilf an' me wife, no betther an' no wurse off in the matther uv

brass nor ye, as happy an' comforthable as ye'd wish, an' all bekase uv

that same big misthake ye're makin'."

"What do you mean, Tim?" inquired Mrs. Jarvis, wiping her eyes.

"Jack 'ud know what I mane, for he's had the lingth uv me tongue many's

the time on that same subjact; but I'll till ye, an' maybe ye'll lay it

to heart betther nor he. Mrs. Jarvis, if ye'll belave me, it's the

dhrink that's at the botthom uv yer misary."

"I won't hear you say such dreadful things, Tim. My Jack's no drinker,

nor me neither. We're both of us moderate, and never--never--" but here

Mrs. Jarvis faltered; and, eyeing her steadily, Tim went on:

"Ye niver, niver take a dhrop too much 'cept on holiday times, an' sich

like; an' thin, what wid the boddher uv the childer, an' the sayte

seein', an' the heat, maybe ye git a little overcome wid what ye take to

quanch yer thirst."

"I dare say you're right, Tim," said Mrs. Jarvis, very much ashamed;

"but I mean to say that my Jack and me don't do what some folks do in

the way of drinking. He doesn't spend his evenings in the public, except

now and then; and, as for me, I only take what will keep body and soul

together, though I confess you're pretty near the truth as to taking

more than is good on holidays."

"Well, we won't say anythin' about sich times. But supposin' it's

to-day, ye'll kape about till the childer's home from school, an' the

first thing'll be: 'Here, Sammie, fetch me a pint of bitther,'--it's

bitther, I suppose?"

"Yes, I can't drink swill, there's no strength in it," said Mrs. Jarvis.

"Then you'll feel spry for a bit; but it don't last, an' ye want to sit

down an' take a nap afore the fire; an' whin ye git up ye feel out uv

sorts, an' the babby's a burdhen, an' yer toddlin' Jim's a plague; an'

by the time that afthernoon school's done ye want windin' up agin, an'

ye must have half a pint afore ye touch yer tay; an' whin Jack fetches

the supper beer, ye're more than riddy to take yer share. Thin ye slape

heavy like, an' if the babby wants seein' to ye can scarce wake; an' ye

don't know how to dhrag yersilf up in the mornin', an' ye wish ye'd got

a dhrink uv beer handy to give ye a sthart, on'y ye haven't the face to

sind for it afore breakfast; but, ye may belave me, ye'll do that wan uv

these days; an' the more ye take uv the pisenin' stuff, the more ye'll

want, an' the wurse ye'll feel, for there's no strength an' no good in

it at all, at all. It jist gives ye a little spurt for the time, but

it's over in a jiffy, an' ye're cross an' fretful wid iverythin' an'

iverybody, an' life's a burdhen from morn till night. An' it's jist the

same wid Jack, poor bhoy. An' thin, whin ye might git a few hours of

plasure, ye're in an' out uv the public-houses till ye're fair fuddled;

an' the nixt day ye've both sore heads and sour tempers, an' yer money's

gone inter the bargain."

"Do you really think there's no good in the beer, Tim? It does seem to

put new life into one; and I hanker after it when I'm weakly."

"Uv coorse, that's nateral, whin ye feel sthronger an' betther afther a

glass; but I've sthudied the quastion, an' wiser heads nor mine'll tell

ye jist as I do,--that it takes out uv a bodhy more nor it iver puts in.

It gives ye for a space what ye want; but ye have to pay for it at an

awful rate uv intherest."

Mrs. Jarvis looked frightened; but Tim proceeded in still graver tones:

"It's the mortal thruth as I'm tellin' ye, indade an' indade; for ye

have to pay for ivery bit uv go that yer glass uv bitther gives ye wid

yer ha'pence first, uv coorse, an' afther wid loss uv yer good timper,

an' the time ye spind in pullin' yersilf togither agin. Ye have to pay

wid a wakely bodhy and a heavy heart; so the childer's sint out uv yer

sayte to git inter mischif an' sin; and yer husban' niver sees yer face

wid a smile on it, an' niver hears ye spake a kindly word. An' sooner

nor later ye'll find ye'll have to pay for yer bitther wid the loss uv

husban' an' childer; for, ye may belave me, the time'll come, bad cess

to ye, whin Jack'll spind ivery blissid night at the public, an' yer

childer will make ye sup sorra be rasin uv turnin' to bad ways; for

there's no worritin' wives at the public, an' no grumblin' mothers round

the sthreet corners. An' that's the last worrud I can say, for the

bell'll ring afore another minit."

With a nod to his wife, and a kindly "good mornin'" to Mrs. Jarvis, Tim

hastened away.

"My missis says I'm to fitch ye home to dinner wid me, Jack, an' she's

tould yer wife that same; so come along wid ye, for ye'll git nought but

air for all ye're growlin' if ye stay there," were the words that fell

on John Jarvis's astonished ears, as he lay watching his companion get

into his coat at the dinner hour.

"Well, I never, if that don't beat all," he exclaimed, jumping up and

seizing his own coat. "What's put that into her head?"

"Case yer quastions an' look sharp now, for I want ye to have a look

round me bit uv ground afther dinner," good-humouredly replied Tim.

The meal to which John presently sat down was simple enough but

abundant, and such as he seldom partook of at his own table. He could

not help also contrasting the bright, happy faces of Tim's wife and

children with his own. He became silent and absorbed in thought, as he

walked round Tim's garden when the repast was ended.

"Ye're an' illigant slip uv a pig, an'll make good mate to ralish the

bread an' praties nixt winter, shure now, won't ye?" said Tim,

addressing himself to the bristly porker who grunted his approval of his

master's hand, as the two men leaned over the sty.

"I'd advase ye to kape a pig, Jack; ye've no idaya how handy a bit uv

bacon is through the winter, wid so many mouths to be fadin'."

"You might just as well advise me to set up a carriage and pair,"

answered John, somewhat testily.

"Nonsinse, ye might do it jist as aisy as mesilf."

"I'd like to know how you make that out, when I never have a penny to

bless myself with after I've paid up on Saturday nights."

"Jist tell me how much ye an' yer ould woman spind a week in beer," was

the unexpected reply.

"At yer old game, matey, eh; well, really now, I can't say. Perhaps I

take three pints a day; not much for a working man, Tim."

"An' maybe yer wife wad take a pint an' a half uv bitther, that wad make

sixpence a day for yersilf, an' fourpence ha'pinny for hersilf; an' ye

know ye ofthen spind more nor that. That 'ud make six shillin' an' a

pinny three farthin's a wake; wan poun' six shillin' an' eight pince a

month; an' sixteen poun' a year. How many pigs de ye sind down yer

throats at that rate in the coorse uv twelve months, me bhoy?"

John Jarvis stood open-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Sixteen pound a year! What on earth have I been a doin'? Sixteen pound

a year; who'd have thought it!" he ejaculated presently; and no more

could Tim get out of him, till, late in the afternoon of that day, he

emptied a hod of bricks at Tim's feet with such energy that Tim looked

up astonished.

"I've made up my mind, Tim, to have a pig. I've been a fool, and

thank'ee for as good as tellin' of me;" and then, as if afraid to trust

himself to say more, he turned away to his work.

That night he and his wife, in the course of a long conversation, not

necessary to record here, made certain resolves; two of which were never

to spend any money in beer, and to try and do their duty better to each

other and their children than they ever had done.

In future years they never ceased to be thankful for the promises then

made, which, being faithfully kept, bore fruit in a happy home, and the

envied worldly prosperity which was their neighbour's.

[Illustration]

THE MOTHER'S MISTAKE.

HALF a dozen little children brimful of life and frolic, a delicate

wailing infant, an indolent maid of all work, and a careworn anxious

mother, wearied with sleepless nights and the burden of domestic cares!

"Poor thing! no wonder you look exhausted!" said a friend who had

called, and was listening with a sympathetic ear to the story of a

woman's fretting cares and heavy responsibilities.

"I wouldn't mind if only my health were vigorous, and I had physical

strength to face life bravely," sighed Mrs. Stewart in reply.

"Do let me beg you to take all the care of yourself that you can. You

must think not only of the present, but of the future, for these little

ones who need such unceasing toil now will want your loving thought and

oversight for many years to come; and for their sake, and your

husband's, it is your bounden duty to stimulate your flagging energies

and strengthen your system to meet the constant demand upon it," was the

response.

"How can I?" despairingly asked Mrs. Stewart; "you see baby, poor little

fellow, fills my arms night and day, and seldom gives me a chance of

taking proper rest."

"I know of only one way in which, overtaxed as you are, you can prevent

yourself from breaking down under such pressure, and that is, by taking

stimulants in one form or another. When you feel nervous and depressed,

don't hesitate to take a glass of wine, and before commencing your

dinner and supper take a little malt liquor to give you an appetite, for

after attending to the children's wants I am sure you must feel

disinclined to eat anything yourself."

"Yes, I am often unable to eat a mouthful of solid food; but thanks for

your advice; I will try what a little stimulant will do for me."

So Mrs. Stewart commenced the daily use of alcoholic stimulants, and

finding their effects to be beneficial to body and mind, and knowing

little or nothing of the subtle danger that lurked in the poisoned cup,

each domestic emergency that arose was ere long met in the fictitious

strength afforded by the ready stimulant.

Years passed away, and the children, whose ceaseless demands upon their

mother's patience and love had well-nigh exhausted her strength, grew

into girlhood and boyhood.

One morning the family was seated at the breakfast table when the

servant brought in a letter enclosing a bill with the familiar signature

of a well-known firm of brewers. The husband's brows knitted as he

glanced down the items.

"It seems to me, Eliza, that we use too much ale and wine for a private

family. Why, we consume more and more, and I only take the same quantity

that I did years ago. It's more than I can stand!" he said, looking

across at his wife, who was listlessly sitting at the head of the table

with her coffee untasted before her. She answered sharply: