"I can't help it, John; I shouldn't take it if I didn't need it, and you

might know that nothing else has kept me alive for many a year."

"I don't complain of stimulant in moderation, my dear; but I cannot

believe that an extensive use of alcohol can benefit a delicate

constitution," replied Mr. Stewart. His wife was not inclined to let the

matter drop.

"You seem to forget that the children take their glass of ale too, and

that makes some difference in the amount we use."

"Well, I object to strong, healthy boys and girls touching stimulants;

it is expensive and quite unneedful."

"But, papa, we like it so much; you mustn't stop our supplies," cried

several youthful voices.

"I must, and I will, my dears; you have not your mother's plea of

ill-health to urge, and from this time I shall not expect you to take

alcohol as a daily beverage. I have no objection to lemonade or some

other non-intoxicant taking its place, for that will be much less

expensive, and besides, I have lately come to the conclusion that young

people, at least, are likely to be harmed by the stimulus of ale or

wine."

"You are very absurd, John. What harm could come to our boys and girls

by taking half a glass of ale at dinner and sometimes at supper?"

testily asked Mrs. Stewart.

"Why, Eliza, you know that a taste formed in childhood is held with

greater tenacity than any other, and this taste for stimulant, which I

am sorry to see the children possess, may not always permit them to

remain satisfied with a glass or so daily; for, I was reading not long

ago, that the tendency of alcohol is to create a morbid craving which

may become that insatiable thirst for drink which has ruined thousands

of men and women who were once children as promising as those who sit

round our table. I wish I had been as wise years ago; they should never

have known the taste of it." So saying, Mr. Stewart left the table.

A chorus of voices was raised as the door closed.

"It's too bad!" "A great shame!" "Lemonade, indeed!" and other

exclamations were uttered expressing disapproval of the father's action.

Mrs. Stewart had not been careful of late years to uphold her husband's

authority in the household, and the unfilial remarks passed without

rebuke, she merely adding: "You'll have to mind what your father says,

you know, or we shall all get into trouble."

A few hours after, when the elder children were at school, the youngest,

a bright boy of seven, came to her side and said: "Shall I get your

wine, mamma?"

"You are mamma's dear boy to remember her lunch time. Yes, bring it out,

though it is quite early."

The wine was brought, and one glass, and then another, and yet another

was drained; the little fellow meanwhile standing by. Catching sight of

his wistful looks, the mother said: "Come, and have a sip, Bertie."

"Papa says I mustn't," faltered Bertie, but drawing a step nearer. Lost

to all sense of duty to husband or child, Mrs. Stewart answered:

"Come, and drink, I tell you; didn't your father say you were not to

have any at dinner, and this is lunch?"

She poured out a full glass, which the child drank without further

demur. He was shortly asleep on the sofa, waking at dinner-time in

fretful mood, and turning impatiently from his food.

"I want my ale," he cried.

"You mustn't have it, Bertie," said his eldest sister; "we all have to

do without it now, thanks to papa's whimsical notions."

"Wait till you're a man, Bertie, and you can drink as much as you

please, as I mean to," remarked his fourteen-year-old brother with a

contracted brow, and a longing glance towards his mother's glass; while

she, poor deluded woman, looked on, languidly smiling, with never a

thought of the possible future of these children for whom she had

suffered and toiled. Many a time, when scarcely conscious of her own

actions, did she encourage them to partake with her in secret of that

which was banished from the table. It was only by the awful but timely

discovery of their mother's degradation that the children were prevented

from following in her steps.

A few months later, upon entering the house at the close of the day, the

father was met by his eldest daughter, a girl of seventeen, who, with

dismay on her face, exclaimed: "Oh, papa, do come upstairs, and see what

is the matter with poor mamma. She has been sleeping heavily for hours,

and when I have tried to disturb her, she has spoken quite wildly, and

then gone to sleep again. A dreadful thought has just occurred to me

that perhaps she has taken poison." Mr. Stewart anxiously followed his

daughter to the room where his wife was lying on the bed. He bent over

her. Her unnatural appearance, and the strong smell of liquor which

proceeded from her parted lips, told the tale; and the truth, horrible

and ghastly, stood revealed to the husband.

"Papa, tell me the truth; is it poison?" asked his daughter, as Mr.

Stewart staggered to a seat. He hesitated a moment, then hoarsely said:

"It is poison of the worst kind, my poor child! Your mother is

intoxicated. Oh, what shall we do? How can we save her?" One brief

moment of horror, and then, subduing all outward manifestation of her

agony, the girl said:

"Papa, we must put the temptation out of her way. We must all of us do

without a luxury which has brought about such a terrible result."

So from the house there was banished from that time the alcoholic

beverages which had been deemed necessary; but, alas! too late to save

the wife and mother from rapidly drifting into confirmed habits of

drunkenness. All the schemes that love could devise proved powerless to

prevent the mistaken woman from continued indulgence in the fatal cup.

The apparent need for constant recourse to stimulants had long since

passed away, but the habit of past years had wrought deadly mischief,

not alone in gradually weakening the power of self-control, but in

creating that morbid craving for alcohol which leaves its deluded victim

no alternative but to obey its behests. She had seen no harm in what had

become an essential of life to her, until she found herself bound in its

toils. True, she did not yield to its slavery without many a struggle,

but temptation was overpowering, and finally she succumbed to what she

declared was inevitable. She had forgotten the only remedy available in

such need as hers. No cry from her despairing heart had risen to heaven;

the strength she lacked had not been sought from Him Who only can save

from the thraldom of sin, and so, with the stain of uncancelled guilt

upon her conscience, she hastened to an untimely end.

As she lay dying with mind weakened by long excess, they sought in vain

for some sign of penitence, for some words to assure their sad hearts

that the darkness of approaching dissolution was gilded by hues of hope

and trust in the forgiving mercy of God through Christ. Day after day

the sufferer's lips were sealed in an obstinate silence that struck

dismay into the hearts of the watchers. She was dying without hope it

seemed; but the prayer of faithful friends rose that the intercession of

the Great High Priest might be made, and prove effectual for His

wandering child.

Still the shadows deepened until it became evident that the mother's

hours were numbered.

"I will watch beside her now, my dears," said the husband, dismissing

his children for a brief period. Taking his seat beside the motionless

form, he sent up a petition for help. Then, stooping over his wife, he

said: "Eliza, dear, would you not like me to pray for you?"

The dying woman opened her eyes and faintly whispered: "No."

"Shall I send for a minister to come and pray with you, then, dear?"

Mrs. Stewart roused herself with a great effort, and with energy

exclaimed: "No, _He has prayed for me_, and that is enough." They were

her last words. Before the next morning she had passed away, leaving to

husband and children the faint comfort of her dying testimony: "He has

prayed for me."

Say, gentle reader, whether being assured of the thousand parallel cases

which exist in this civilised land of ours, you will dare to place

temptation in the way of your sister, by advocating the use of alcohol

as the necessary stimulant which alone can nerve the failing heart and

brain to meet the exigencies of her daily life, thus placing before her

unwary feet the stumbling-block over which she may fall never to rise?

It may be that you who proffer the well-meaning advice are moderate in

the use of your own alcoholic luxuries, and cannot understand the

mysterious attraction they may hold for another; yet, surely to you is

uttered the divine warning: "Woe unto him that giveth his neighbour

drink, that puttest thy bottle to him." And you, sister, plying your

household tasks with an aching head, amidst the ceaseless prattle of the

little ones who call you mother, striving patiently to perform your

God-given duties, yet fainting under the burden and heat of the day,

beware, oh, beware, of seeking relief from the tension of nerve and

brain, which is a woman's allotted portion, by deadening the finely

strung susceptibilities of your nature by indulgence in any of the

various forms which alcohol assumes, or under which it would hide.

Beware how you seek its false stimulus to enable you to cope with the

almost superhuman duties devolving upon you! Patience and strength to

endure will be given in God's appointed way; but be assured you will

never find it in that which is responsible for myriads of ruined homes

and blighted lives.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE CHILDREN'S SUPPER.

"SHE'S such a little thing, papa; really it seems quite unnecessary to

say anything about it to her for the next few years."

"Perhaps you are right, dear. Elsie will meet with no temptation at

home, and a child of her tender years is scarcely likely to find it

outside."

So said Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, when it had been proposed to introduce the

subject of total abstinence to their youngest, a fairy child of six, and

suggest to her that she should follow the example of her parents and

brothers and sisters, who shortly before had pledged themselves to

abstain from the use of intoxicating beverages.

"If we say anything to the dear child, it would be necessary to tell her

why we consider it advisable to banish wine and ale from the house, and

she would be perplexed and saddened by the insight afforded into misery

and degradation of which she, at present, knows nothing. Her life is all

sunshine now, and we have no right to disturb her childish happiness,"

added Mrs. Morgan.

So Elsie's little mind puzzled over the unrevealed reason of the absence

from her father's table of the bottled ales and sparkling wines, the

taste of which she had already learned to like.

A year passed away, and an invitation to a children's party was sent to

Elsie, who forthwith became wild with excitement. A dainty creature she

looked on the afternoon of the important day. Her golden curls softly

floated over her blue merino dress, and her brown eyes flashed and

glowed with delight.

"Mother's darling, good-bye! try and be a little lady, and nurse shall

fetch you at nine o'clock," said the mother, as she pressed her child's

coral lips, and then watched the little feet trip down the road beside

the servant.

The hours, brimful of frolic and merriment, passed all too quickly for

the happy children, and at eight o'clock they gathered in the

dining-room for the early supper. The long table was covered with

luxuries, and beside each child's plate was a small glass of wine.

"Now, dear children, make yourselves quite at home, and ask for anything

you want," said the hostess, as her little guests took their places.

"May I have a glass of water, please?" asked an eight-year-old boy,

soon after supper had commenced, pushing his glass of wine aside.

"Oh, my dear Charlie, I am sure you will like a glass of wine much

better. Gentlemen always take wine, you know," replied the lady.

"I mus'n't take wine, please, because I belong to the Young Abstainers'

Union," replied Charlie.

"Why, whatever kind of a Union is that, my boy?" asked the host.

"It means that those who join it have promised never to touch wine or

anything of the kind."

"Stuff and nonsense! You'll never be a man unless you can drink a glass

of wine with your friends."

Charlie coloured, but pushed his glass further away.

"Never mind, dear! our little friend's whims must not be interfered

with. He will learn better when he is older," said the hostess, ordering

a glass of water to take the place of the wine.

Elsie sat next to Charlie, and turning to her the host said:

"Now, Miss Elsie, you don't look as if you belonged to this army of

youthful abstainers. Let us see how you can drink your wine; then you

shall have the glass that Charlie despises."

Nothing loth, Elsie obeyed. She had never been allowed more than a sip

or two from her father's glass, and it was many months since even that

quantity had passed her lips. What wonder, then, that when supper was

ended, and she tried to leave her seat, she should stumble and fall to

the ground, overcome by her unwonted indulgence in the stimulant.

"Poor little Elsie! let me help you up," cried Charlie; but Elsie lay at

his feet, and kicked and screamed in unaccountable anger. When at last

she was picked up, her cheeks were purple with passion, and her eyes

gleamed with a strange, wild light.

"The excitement has been too much for her, I suppose; but I am quite

surprised at such a display of temper. She has always seemed so sweet

and gentle," and the hostess hurried Elsie away to the waiting nurse.

"Miss Elsie, Miss Elsie, I am ashamed of you; whatever will your ma

say?" expostulated the servant, as Elsie clung to her skirts and refused

to say good-night.

"Papa, what is the matter with the child! I never saw her look so

strange," exclaimed Mrs. Morgan, taking Elsie a few minutes later from

her nurse's arms.

Mr. Morgan sat the child on his knee, and as he did so the fumes of wine

met him.

"She has taken more wine than has been good for her; that is what is the

matter with our little one!"

The horrified mother sank into a chair, but Elsie raised her dimpled

hand and struck at her father, crying in a hoarse unnatural voice:

"I haven't, I haven't, you nasty papa! I didn't have half enough of the

nice wine."

"That is quite sufficient; take her away, nurse, and put her to bed. I

will talk to her to-morrow."

"We have made a great mistake, wife, and are reaping the consequences in

seeing our six-year-old child inflamed with the stimulant which we have

banished from our own home," said the father, as the door closed.

Mrs. Morgan wept, and made no reply.

Long and seriously did the parents talk to Elsie on the following day,

who, easily influenced, as what child of her tender years might not be,

listened with tears to the revelation of unknown dangers, and pleaded

that she, like Charlie, might make such a promise as would save her

childish feet from again being ensnared by the betrayer, and in the

following years prove her safeguard and defence.

Mothers, who read this true story, will you not beware of the danger

that threatens your little children, and learn that none are too young

and fair to escape the toils of strong drink, unless guarded by an

intelligent knowledge of the perils that beset them, and a resolve,

early formed, never to touch or handle the treacherous cup?

[Illustration]

ROLAND WEST'S MARK,

AND HOW HE MADE IT.

"TELL nurse to bring the children down, Barnes," said Mrs. West, as a

servant answered a peal of the dining-room bell.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Barnes, and in a few minutes the children made

their appearance. After being introduced to a guest, the elder ones

seated themselves at the table, from which the dessert was not yet

removed.

"Please, mamma, may I have half a glass of sherry?" asked one.

"I should like port better," said a second.

"Will you help them, very carefully, please, papa?" asked the mother.

"I want some, too," said a bright, handsome boy of five, upraising his

sparkling eyes to his father's face.

"Oh, no, Roland, you are such a wee boy; if you have it, Leonard will

want it."

"I do like it so much; let me have just a little drop in papa's glass,"

teased Roland.

"Oh, come, mamma; that'll never hurt him; only help to make a man of

him, won't it, Roland?" said his father.

"Yes, make me a man, like my papa! When I'm big, I'll drink, oh, bottles

and bottles; not have a taste of papa's," said the child, looking

contemptuously at the remains of the sparkling wine, which, in his

father's glass, had been set before him.

"When you're a man, Roland, you will be a little wiser than you are

now," said his father, somewhat sharply.

"I'll be as wise as--as--that man in the picture on the library wall,

perhaps."

"Who's that?" asked the guest, in amused tones.

"Why, Gladstone! The precocious youngster strongly admires him, and is

for ever declaring his intention of copying his hero's plan of life."

"He has the brow and eye of a genius, West!" said the visitor, gazing in

admiration at the boy's face. "I wish I had such a child! What are you

going to make of him?"

"I'll give him a good education, first; fit him for the bar, if he takes

kindly to the idea, and he ought, for he talks like a lawyer already.

Yes, he'll make his mark, I shouldn't wonder," replied the father, with

pride; "but what's the matter with the boy? sleepy! at this time! Here,

sit up! Mamma, his forehead's burning. Lucy, has he had a fall

upstairs?"

"No, papa: but he was asleep when Barnes came for us, and nurse had to

wake him up to come down."

Mr. and Mrs. West looked anxiously at the child, who was already asleep,

and after observing his flushed cheeks and heavy breathing, Mrs. West

sent for the nurse.

"Nurse," she said, as the servant entered the room, "have you noticed

Master Roland seeming unwell to-day?"

"No, ma'am, he was as bright as usual this morning; but, when we were at

dinner, I happened to turn my head to attend to Miss Hetty, and Master

Roland emptied my glass of ale, and since then he has been very drowsy,

and I could scarcely rouse him to bring him downstairs."

"Oh, nurse, I wish you would take your ale some other time; if the

children see you taking it they are sure to want it, and I never allow

them to touch anything but a little wine," exclaimed Mrs. West.

"Roland won't come to any harm, my dear, so don't trouble yourself.

Carry him away, nurse, and put him straight to bed. He'll be all right

in the morning," said Mr. West.

Nurse obeyed, looking much aggrieved. Bending over the sleeping child

she murmured: "What with my ale and his father's drops, the boy's drunk.

Poor little fellow! he'll make his mark, as they're so fond of saying,

but I'm afraid it will be a very black one. But I'll take no more blame

to myself, for Master Roland shall never see me touch my ale again; not

for missis's sake, though," added the girl with a dark look.

Ten years went by, and again Mr. West entertained the same friend at his

well-spread table.

"What has become of that fine little fellow of yours, West? Roland, I

think you called him," inquired the guest, looking round the table and

missing from amongst the youthful faces the one that had struck his

fancy years ago.

"The young scamp's just finishing his schooldays," answered the father.

"He's been making his mark, I quite expect; no one could help observing

the boy had splendid capabilities. Do you still think of making a lawyer

of him?" continued the visitor.

"I don't know what to do with him; I'm fairly puzzled. It's true enough,

as you say, he has splendid capabilities, and might become anything he

chose; but he settles to nothing, and as for making his mark at school,

he's done it with a vengeance."

Mrs. West frowned from the bottom of the table, but Mr. West took no

notice, and continued:

"His education and his private bills have cost me a pretty penny."

"Private bills! What has a school-boy to do with private bills?" asked

the guest.

"Oh, bills for champagne suppers and cigars, on the sly, of course; the

young rascal says the other fellows do it, and he must, and I've had to

pay the piper. I told him last term he would have to stop his

extravagance and settle to hard work, but he seems in no way inclined to

do that, and I've had more than one complaint of him from

head-quarters."

"Well, papa, Roland's only a boy yet, and we mustn't expect him to be as

wise as his father," expostulated Mrs. West, in a tone of irritation.

"No, my dear, we must not and do not, but when I was his age----"

"You were perfect, of course," finished Mrs. West; "pray find some other

topic of conversation than the little weaknesses of your son."

"Little weaknesses!" Ah! thus had Roland's grave faults and his early

tendencies to evil courses been glossed over by the false kindness of a

fond parent, until now, at the early age of sixteen, few would have

recognised in the boisterous stripling, with swaggering gait and eyes

already lustreless, the once lovely boy, whose childish years had given

the fair promise of a golden future.

Choosing for himself companions rife for mischief and folly, on leaving

school he indulged in those pursuits, from which, though most congenial,

he had been greatly debarred during his seclusion. Now he began, as he

termed it, to enjoy life. Each evening he sought the exciting scenes of

revelry and debauch, and neither his father's stern reproaches nor the

tearful pleadings of his mother, moved him to more than a passing

thought of the ruin which he was inevitably working out for himself. But

when his constitution had become weakened by excesses, there came into

his life influences that were mighty in their gentle drawing towards all

that was good and noble.

While yet a young man, he met, at the house of a friend, a lady of

strong religious tendencies. Strongly drawn to her by the attraction of

a well-balanced mind and a beautiful exterior, he resolved, if possible,

to win her affections. So great was her influence upon him, that, for a

time, the force of evil habits lost its power, and other society was

readily relinquished for hers, and the house of God beheld him an

outwardly reverent worshipper at her side. Alas! that one so influenced

by the power of human love should have missed those gracious impressions

which, made on the tender heart of childhood, so often prove the good

seed of the Kingdom, springing up into life eternal.

In thus taking upon himself the profession of Christianity, Roland was

no hypocrite. He had seen the beauty and acknowledged the power of a

life that was far above him, and from his heart he loathed the life he

had hitherto led, and earnestly desired to put it away for ever. But

strong only in his own strength, and looking to no higher power than

earthly love to aid him in his upward course, what marvel that he

deceived himself and others also. With his heart's desire at length

accomplished, and with renewed prospects of a bright future, Roland West

might have retrieved the dark past, and entered upon a career of

usefulness, such as had been fondly pictured for him. Was it so? Let one

scene, after a lapse of twelve years, tell its sorrowful tale.

In a cottage in one of the crowded suburbs of London, a pale,

anxious-looking mother was alternately sewing and directing the studies

of a fine boy, with a massive forehead and intelligent eyes.

"Mother, I've mastered it at last; I'm so glad," he said presently.

"That's right, my son; you are quick, like your father," his mother

replied with a sigh.

"My father quick!" said the boy with ill-repressed contempt; "I didn't

know that before."

"Hush, Allan, your father was very clever when I first knew him, and

could do anything he liked."

"Then why does he leave you to work so hard now, while he lounges about

all day? Mother, I must speak; tell me that!" cried the boy impetuously.

"I cannot have you speak of your father like that, Allan; but I will

tell you why he cannot now do what he ought. When he was a boy like you

he was allowed to choose his own way in everything, and have all that he

asked for, and he chose wrong companions and sinful pleasures until he

ruined and blighted his own life and others too."

Allan hung his head, and remembered how he had sometimes rebelled

against the wise decisions of his much loved mother, and determined that

in the future he would add as little as possible to the heavy burden

that rested upon her frail shoulders. There was a step outside, and Mrs.

West rose hurriedly saying: "Clear your books away, and go to bed,

Allan; I must lay supper;" but before Allan had time to obey, his father

entered.

Was it possible that in a few short years Roland West should have become

the besotted, degraded-looking man, who flung himself into the one

easy-chair the room possessed?

"That boy up yet," he said with a scowl, "at those everlasting books;

let him go to work like other boys of his age, and earn his salt."

"That's what I intend him to do as soon as he is fit, Roland," answered

his wife in the quiet, firm tone with which she always addressed her

husband; usually he outwardly submitted to the controlling power that

her voice and eye exerted upon him; but this night he was in no mood to

be controlled or reasoned with.

"Hold your tongue, you saucy jade! What right have you to be bringing up

my boy to know more than his father, and teaching him your own fine airs

and graces. I'll have no more of it. Here, boy, fetch me a pint of ale!"

"Roland," said his wife, "Allan shall not go into that place of cursing

and drunkenness; I'll go myself rather."

"Oh," said the man, inwardly quailing before her flashing eyes, "is that

it, my high and mighty dame? either you or Allan shall go, then."

Seizing a jug, in a moment his wife had disappeared, returning shortly

with her face crimson, and the foaming vessel in her hand.

"Well, madam, you've had your way, now I'll have mine," said her

husband, and filling a glass, he called his son downstairs. "Here,

Allan," he said, "drain that, or I'll thrash you soundly."

"Father, you forget, I belong to the Band of Hope," said the boy

appealingly.

"Drink it, I say," and the infuriated man seized the child's arm.

"Roland, will you blight your boy's life as you have your own?"

interposed the mother. Down came the cruel hand on wife and child, and,

while a volley of oaths rained from the man's lips, Allan lifted the

glass and drained the contents.

"Now, go to bed, and remember that when your father speaks you are to

obey. I'll make a man of you yet, you young milksop!"

Sobbing bitterly, Allan crept to his bed, and his anguish found vent in

the pitiful question: "What else can I be but a drunkard when my father

makes me drink?"

What, indeed, could be the future of the child, who from that time was

compelled to fetch, and then partake of his brutal father's cup? What

marvel that with early acquired taste for strong drink, he impatiently

cast aside the restraint of a tender mother, and followed with rapid

footsteps his father to a premature dishonoured end!

Another scene, the closing one, and all that is needful for reproof and

warning will have been drawn from the life-history of Roland West.

* * * * *

"He's worse to-day, mum," said the nurse of a workhouse infirmary to a

woman closely veiled, who was bending over a bed upon which lay

stretched the form of an old man. What a face for any woman to gaze

upon, and know that once it had been the joy of her life to mark the

light of intellect and the tenderness of devotion sparkling and kindling

in the eyes that now only turned in their sunken sockets with dim, vague

unrest from side to side.

"Do you know me, Roland?" asked the visitor; but no reply was made, nor

sign of any kind given.

"Bless you, no, mum; he doesn't know me as allus feeds him, and hasn't

for months. He jest lays there and rolls his eyes about, and cries

sometimes like a babby," said the nurse who stood by. "You see, mum,"

she continued, "it's more often like this with them as drinks, when they

can't get at their drops, they jest get lower and lower, and you can't

do nothing for them. My old man went off like this one, and he'd been a

frightful drinker."

"How do you know when he's worse?" asked Mrs. West, for it was she.

"He won't swaller his food, mum, and you can't get no heat into him;

jest feel his hands." Mrs. West took the icy hand into her own, and

started at its chill dampness.

"This is no ordinary coldness," she said, with a nurse's quick

perception; for many years had passed since, obeying her husband's

mandate, she had found occupation for herself, and food for her

children, at the bedside of the sick and dying.

"He is dying," she said, touching the clammy forehead; "Oh, Roland, say

one word to your wife before you go." As if in answer to her appeal

there flashed a gleam of intelligence from the glazing eyes, and with a

tremendous effort one word broke from the blue lips with terrible

distinctness, and rang through the ward. It was the word "Forgive."

Then the eyes grew fixed, and the face slowly settled down into the

stillness of death. He who was once the pride of a fond father, and the

joy of a doting mother, had made his mark and gone from a workhouse bed

to answer before his Creator and Judge for the deeds done in the body.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

HOW A HUSBAND WAS LOST AND FOUND.[B]

"WELL, my girl, this is a spanking place to call our own," said Richard

Watson, as he surveyed with pride the two tiny rooms which formed the

new home to which he had just brought the woman of his choice. His

mother had left them together, after putting the last remaining touches

to the place; and they had completed their short tour of investigation,

discovering, at each step of their slow progress, some new trace of the

thoughtful care that had been bestowed upon the arrangement of the goods

and chattels with which the two young people had ventured to set up

housekeeping.

Richard was a mason by trade, and although his wages were not high,

they had enabled him to save something towards a rainy day, and to

furnish the aforesaid rooms.

Jane, his wife, had been a domestic servant in a clergyman's family for

many years, and had left, with mutual regrets, when Richard would no

longer wait for the fulfilment of her promise to him. There was only one

fault that her mistress ever had occasion to find with Jane; and, before

her maid left, she very faithfully pointed it out; showing her that

continued yielding to her failure would be likely to prove disastrous to

her happiness as a wife. Jane listened attentively, and promised to

remember the warning, and guard against what she knew to be her greatest

besetment. And she fully intended to keep her promise. Richard had been

so patient and good, and was so fond of her, that it would, indeed, be a

shame if she did not do all in her power to make him happy. So strong

was she in her own purpose, that she forgot that the habit which had

grown with her years would be too powerful for merely a good resolution

to overcome.

But that evening, as they lingered over their meal, there was no

suspicion of future trouble. The atmosphere was one of love and calm

enjoyment. Would that upon every married life there always rested the

warm sunshine of that mutual love and trust with which most young people

commence their journey together. Too often the love grows cold, faith

in each other is lost, and the only change that comes to many from the

sore misery of living divided lives is the darkness of death, and an

unknown, unprepared for, eternity.

"O, Richard, I never thought you'd have had everything so nice and ready

for me. I quite expected plenty of work for a few days," said Jane.

"'Twasn't likely, my dear, as I'd have brought you to that at first, I'd

sooner have paid a woman; but mother, she'd have been quite hurt if I

hadn't have let her set to work; and I'm sure not even you would have

made the place look prettier and brighter," replied Richard.

"No, you're right, Richard. Dear old soul! It's very likely that I

shouldn't have fixed the rooms half so nicely; but I shall do my very

best to keep them just as they are for many a day. Missis always said I

was careless about my work; but it seems to me as if doing for one's own

home must be a very different thing to slaving for any one else."

"I've no fear of you, my dear, none at all," replied Richard; "but I

don't want you to be slaving and toiling away all your time. You'll get

plenty of that by and bye, like my poor mother."

"I can do all my own work, and perhaps lend her a helping hand, for

she'll be sure to miss you; and 'tisn't fair that I should take her son,

and not make her some kind of a return."

"Bless you, my girl! I'd thought of that before, but didn't like to say

anything to you about it, because some women might have been jealous if

their husbands had thought anything about their old mothers, who nursed

'em and brought 'em up. I'm real glad you're not that sort."

"I should think it downright mean to be jealous of my own mother-in-law,

so you never need fear for me, my dear," returned Jane.

Thus they chatted on through the evening, the first of many such

pleasant times; and for weeks Richard never returned from his daily toil

without being gladdened by the sight of a figure in clean print dress

standing in the doorway to greet him.

But one evening, although Jane met her husband as usual, there was

something about her which puzzled Richard.

"What's the matter with you, missis?" he inquired at length, examining

her critically, as she took her seat opposite him at the table and began

to pour out his tea.

Jane flushed and hesitated, and finally said: "What eyes you men have!

Can't you see?"

"I declare you've never changed your morning gown, and it wasn't extra

clean to start with; so said I to myself this morning: 'I suppose Jane's

going to have a cleaning day; but there's one comfort, she'll be as neat

and clean when I get back as she was the first day she stepped foot in

the house.'"

"That's just how it is, Richard. I've had a good hard day's work; and I

was so tired, I thought for once it didn't matter about changing my

dress, as my hands and face were clean."

"Humph," said Richard. He was evidently not quite of his wife's opinion;

and, all that evening, whenever he happened to look across at Jane, he

experienced a disagreeable sensation at the unaccustomed sight of a

dirty dress, and hair that was anything but smooth.

Richard was certainly very particular; and the next morning, on

returning from closing the street door behind him, after listening to

his last charge to meet him that evening in her usual spotless attire,

Jane uttered the ejaculation: "Fussy!"

At that juncture, her landlady, Mrs. Jones, stepped in, asking for the

loan of some kitchen utensil, and Jane, with little work on hand, fell

into gossip.

"Yes," she said, in answer to her neighbour's comments on the appearance

of the room, "it does look nice. I spent the best part of yesterday over

it. My good man is very particular, and so am I, for the matter of that,

and I like a clean place to sit in."

"Ah, well, wait till you've a batch of children, like me, and you won't

be able to have your regular cleaning times, and get done to sit with

your husband of evenings. Not that mine's ever at home, if I had the

chance of sitting down a spell," said Mrs. Jones.

"My husband always stays at home, and I should fret if he took to

leaving me alone," replied Jane.

"Don't you make too much fuss over him at first, my dear. He'll be

spoiled, and always expect you to keep it up. Just you take my advice,

Mrs. Watson, and live a little easy the next few months, while you've

got the chance. Life'll be hard enough for you, depend upon it; and I'd

just save my strength if I was you, for you'll need it all."

With these parting words the woman went away, leaving her suggestions

and advice to work as they might in Jane's mind. It was so different to

anything her husband's mother had ever said to her on the matter. "Spare

no pains," she had said, "during the first year of your married life, to

make home the happiest place in all the world for your husband, and you

will never regret it."

Hitherto Jane had listened to her words and acted upon them, thereby

securing her own and her husband's happiness. Now she sat down, somewhat

listlessly, to think over what Mrs. Jones had just said.

"Who's likely to be right, I wonder, mother or Mrs. Jones? 'Tisn't

likely that his own mother would think her son could be spoiled; and

yet, I don't know but what I'm doing that, and I'm sure I can't keep it

up always. I never have an idle moment," mused she; "what with keeping

my own place as clean as a new pin, and running round to mother's. I

wonder what Mrs. Jones would have said if I'd told her that he didn't

like my dirty dress yesterday evening, and scarcely said a word to me,

after slaving all day to please him! Men do want a lot from a woman, I

must say!"

But just at that point Jane started to her feet, and resolutely put away

the new thought which had come upon her quite unawares. But Jane's habit

had asserted itself again, and, little by little, she yielded to it;

until one day Richard let himself into his home with the latch-key, and,

walking into the little kitchen, found an untidy place, and a dirty wife

stooping before a fireless grate.

"Come, come, missis, do you know the time?" he said.

"How should I, when the clock's stopped?"

"Why didn't you wind it then, my dear? But don't flurry yourself," he

added kindly; "I'll get cleaned, and then maybe tea'll be ready." And

passing into the outer kitchen, Richard began to wash away the traces of

his day's work. Half ashamed of herself, Jane bustled about, and soon

had tea waiting. When Richard came in he glanced at his

slatternly-looking wife, and said: "I don't mind waiting while you're

making yourself tidy, Jane."

"It doesn't matter, Richard. We're late to-night, and the evening will

be gone directly."

"Well, Jane, I don't like my wife to sit down in such a dirty state as

you're in. I don't see the need of it, when I can be clean enough."

"Oh, no! I dare say not; you men think we women folk can do the dirtiest

work and never soil our fingers and be always ready to dance attendance

on you whenever you choose to come home," said Jane, using her perverse

woman's tongue as she had never before ventured to do in her husband's

presence.

Richard opened his lips to utter a sharp retort, but, being a man of

peace, thought better of it; and, rising from his seat, took down his

hat from its peg, remarking that there was one woman at least who he

knew would be very glad to dance attendance upon him, and as he thought

he had rather neglected her of late, he would go and spend the evening

with her. The moment he had gone, Jane rushed into the street, calling:

"Come back, Richard, do come back!" but Richard had gone too far to

hear, or did not choose to heed her cry.

"He's never left me before," she cried, as she returned to her desolate

room; and conscience, with many a sting, told her that it was all her

own doing.

Richard rapidly made his way to his mother's cottage; but when he

reached it, all was darkness, and there was no answer to his repeated

knocks. "Out nursing again, I suppose," he muttered, and not knowing

whither to turn his steps for the evening, for he was determined not to

return home till late, he stood hesitating.

"Well, Dick, my boy, what brings you away from your home and your wife

to-night? It's a strange thing to clap eyes on you these days," said a

voice at his side; and turning, he saw a man with whom he had formerly

worked.

"You're right; I don't often turn out of nights; but I wanted to see my

mother, and I find she's out."

"The very ticket! your wife won't be expecting you back just yet; and we

want a sociable, sensible fellow like you at our workmen's club. You've

promised me many a time to come and see us; now's your chance!" said the

man, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I don't care if I do look in," said Richard after a moment's

deliberation; "but I mustn't be late."

"Come along, then," answered the man, well pleased with the chance of

introducing a manly fellow like Richard to his companions in the

neighbouring tavern, where the meetings of the club were nightly held.

Suffice it to say, that late that evening Richard was helped to the door

of his home by some of its members, with the understanding that he was

to be enrolled among their number on the following evening. It would

take too long to picture Jane's distress when she met him after her long

waiting and remorse. Her husband in such a condition, and none to blame

but herself! She did not sleep that night, and in those dark hours she

determined that the past should be retrieved. She watched him anxiously

the next morning, but he never spoke, except to answer her questions in

monosyllables. Long before his time for returning from work had

arrived, the kitchen was spotlessly clean, the kettle singing on the

shining grate, and Jane herself arrayed in a clean gown and new ribbon.

"Surely, he'll want to stay at home to-night, when he sees how pleasant

everything looks again," said she to herself. When he came in, he took

no apparent heed of his surroundings, but drank his tea in moody

silence. When he had finished, he rose and took his hat, but Jane

started up, crying:

"Oh, Richard, pray don't leave me again to-night! See how nice

everything is, and I promise you it shall always be so."

"Don't take on so, lass," he said, touched by the sight of her tears; "I

won't be long away, but I've made a promise, and must stick to it," and

with that Jane had to be content. But though she watched until she grew

weary he came not to cheer her loneliness. She had carelessly permitted

him to leave her side, and now other influences were around him, and she

must reap the consequences of her folly. From that time Jane's evenings

were spent in solitude and tears. In vain she sought to keep her husband

under the safe shelter of his own roof. When he would have yielded to

her entreaties, his companions came and carried him away in triumph.

Eventually, Jane grew resentful and careless, and when her first little

one was born she had settled down to habitual neglect of her home and

her own person. The responsibility of motherhood roused her to fresh

efforts, which, if she had persevered in them, might have proved

successful, but she soon relapsed into her slatternly ways, and was

content to spend her days listlessly nursing her baby, and musing upon

the wretchedness of her lot. At first Richard had taken considerable

pride in the tiny atom of humanity which had found its way into the

home; but baby came in for her share of neglect, and after a while her

father took little notice of her.

"Poor little baby! your father doesn't care for you or me! He loves the

drink and his public-house mates a deal better than the pair of us,"

sighed Jane many a time. Well, Jane, who sent him to the public-house to

find friends and amusements, in the first place? You have no one to

thank but yourself you know, or you might know, if you would care to

think. But Jane seldom did think, and the gulf in the cottage home

between husband and wife grew wider and deeper as the months and years

rolled away. Children were born to their lot of misery and neglect, and

Jane had hard work to fill their hungry mouths and cover their

nakedness. Pitifully small grew the weekly sum which Richard brought

home to meet the growing need of those who belonged to him. How else

could it be when so large a portion of his hard-earned money went to

support the wife and children of the thriving publican whose house

Richard patronised every evening of the week?

"I don't know how you expect me to get bread and pay rent with that

pittance," said Jane one Saturday evening as he threw a few shillings

into her lap.

"If it isn't enough, why don't you go out, then, and earn for yourself,

like many a better woman than you is doing?" he growled.

How low Richard had sunk! But he had only gone down one step at a time.

"And who'd look after your children, I'd like to know, while their

mother's away slaving?" retorted his wife.

"Precious little looking after such dirty brats want. Something to eat

once or twice a day, and mud to make pies of, and they're enough like

their dirty mother to be satisfied," said Richard, scowling in disgust

at his miserable-looking wife, who replied:

"I'm a good match for you, whatever you may say, although I should be

sorry to have your red nose and bleared eyes." Richard muttered an oath,

and his wife disappeared, having gone as far as she deemed prudent.

"I've a good mind to go out cleaning after all. It's a new idea. I can't

sit in the house, and fold my arms in idleness while the children want

bread," said Jane to herself that evening. "It's true enough that the

children don't want much looking after. I dare say Mrs. Jones would take

baby and give the others their food for a few pence, if I could get

work."

"I declare I'll do it!" she presently decided.

There was little difficulty in getting work, and for her children's sake

Jane worked as she had never done before. With the continual strain on

body and mind she grew prematurely old and worn; but there was no help

for it. She must work now until all strength failed, for Richard's money

ceased altogether, and the children were wholly dependent upon her

exertions.

One day she went to a new place to which she had been recommended by one

of her constant employers. Whilst she was cleaning a window in the room

where the mistress of the house was seated at work, the lady commenced a

conversation. Usually reticent about her own affairs, Mrs. Martyn's

gentleness touched Jane's desolate spirit, and the story of her

wretchedness was soon told.

"Were you happy when you were first married?" Mrs. Martyn inquired, and

was startled by the vehement answer:

"Oh, yes, ma'am, as happy as the day was long! My husband was so good,

and always spent his evenings at home. Ah, we were happy!"

"What made the difference, my poor woman?" was the next question, and

Jane hung her head. She had long ceased to blame herself for her share

in the wrong which had blighted her life. It all came back to her now;

conscience spoke, and would not be silenced, and told her that but for

her wrong-doing, hers might still have been a happy home.

"It was my fault, ma'am," she faltered. "I was careless and neglectful

of his comforts, and spoke sharply to him for no earthly reason, and

he's that changed, I don't know him, and he gets worse. Look here,

ma'am," and opening her dress she revealed a bruise, inflicted by a

cruel hand, "that's the first time he's ever given me a real blow; but

he'll not stop at that."

"Poor thing," said Mrs. Martyn, shuddering at the revelation of a

sister's woe.

"Couldn't you try and win him back?"

"I tried years ago, and it was no use, and now he isn't worth it,

ma'am," answered Jane.

"But suppose he could be drawn from his evil companions, and strong

drink! Don't you think it would be worth while to have an affectionate

father for your children, and a tender husband for yourself, Mrs.

Watson?"

"Yes, ma'am, if it could be done; but I don't believe it could," replied

Jane, despondingly.

"Will you promise me to make one more effort if I help you, and ask Mr.

Martyn to look after your husband? He wouldn't be the first man whom my

husband has helped out of the mire."

A flash of hope lit up Jane's face, and she said: "You're very kind to

take any interest in a stranger, ma'am, I'm sure, and if it will please

you, I'll try once more."

"That's right; now go on with your work as quickly as possible, and I'll

do my best to arrange some plan for you."

Jane's fingers fled over her work, as she looked into a possible future

of brightness for herself and her children. "Hoping against hope," she

called it, and yet she continued to hope.

At four o'clock that afternoon, Mrs. Martyn came to her and bade her lay

aside her work, and prepare to go home.

"Never mind finishing, Mrs. Watson; the servant can manage very well

now, and it is of the utmost importance that you should be home early to

carry out my plan," said the lady. "Your husband comes home, you tell

me, soon after six for his tea. Now you must have your kitchen as neat

and clean as you can get it in the time. The fire must be bright, and

the tea laid, and everything as much like it used to be as possible. In

this parcel you will find a little good tea, and a chop for your

husband, also a few other things which you may find useful. You may take

the old carpeting you shook to-day; it will do to lay down before your

fire-place. But, above all, you must be perfectly clean and fresh

yourself, your best dress on, and a bright ribbon, if you have it, and

your children to match. Don't forget anything, and Mr. Martyn will look

in during the evening and see if he cannot persuade your husband to

come with him to the Gospel Temperance Room and sign the pledge.

Remember, I shall be asking God to bless your effort, and I believe He

will."

"Oh, ma'am," cried Jane, with streaming eyes, "how can I ever thank you

for your goodness?"

"Don't wait to try, but run off, or you will not have time to prepare

for your husband's return."

With hurried footsteps Jane sped home. Arrived there, she begged Mrs.

Jones to keep her baby until she was ready for her, while the other

little ones were dismissed into the back yard. It was years since the

grate had received such a polishing, or the floor such a scrubbing. When

it was finished, Jane surveyed the work of her hands with satisfaction.

"Now for myself," she said. Opening the bag Mrs. Martyn had given her,

she discovered a white apron, two or three clean pinafores for the

children, besides the things Mrs. Martyn had specified.

"I'll put on one of those print dresses I used to wear. It's faded and

old-fashioned now; but it's clean, and that's more than the rags I've

got are, and maybe Richard'll think I look something like I did years

ago," said Jane; and, although there were lines of care on her forehead,

and hollows in her cheeks, there was such an unwonted sparkle in her

eyes as she tried the effect, that she scarcely recognised herself as

the same forlorn-looking creature who had left the house that morning.

"Come, children, I want you." Three ragged, unkempt little ones came

running in.

"Oh, mother, what a nice fire!" "Oh, mother, what a lovely cake!" and

"Oh, mother, how grand you look, and what a clean floor you've made!"

were the exclamations that burst from the astonished trio, as they

entered the room.

"Yes, it's a clean floor, and you must try to keep it so; and if you're

good you'll get some cake when father comes home. Listen, children!

perhaps if you're very quiet and behave yourselves, father'll stay at

home to-night and every night, and then I needn't go out to work any

more, and leave you alone all day long."

"Oh, mother, that would be jolly!" they cried.

Jane had scarcely imagined what a little attention would do for her

neglected children, and she exulted in the thought that their father

would scarcely know them. Baby's turn came last of all; and finally Jane

sat down, with all preparations made, in no little trepidation, to await

her husband's arrival. His heavy step was heard at last, and she rose as

he entered the room, while her children clustered round her.

"Beg pardon, missis," stammered Richard, after a moment's stupified

pause; "I've made a mistake somehow."

"Oh, Richard, Richard, you've made no mistake! This is your home, I am

your wife, and these are your children."

"Jane," he exclaimed, "what's come to you all? who's coming, and what's

this cleaning up for?"

"Richard, my dear, there's no one but you coming, and this cleaning up

is all for you; and if you'll only make up your mind to stay at home

always, you'll never find any worse place to come to; but a great deal

better in time, I promise you faithfully," and Jane sank down in her

chair, unable to stand any longer.

"Well, my girl, I will say as it's the pleasantest sight I've set eyes

on for many a long day. Put the baby down, and let's look at you again.

I declare you look like the Jane I brought home years ago. I thought I'd

lost her for good, I did; but here she is again," and he put his hands

upon her shoulders and kissed her; the first kiss that his lips had left

upon hers for years, and Jane melted into floods of tears.

"Oh, Richard," she said, laying her head upon his breast, "if you'll

only forgive me and love me again, I'll make up for the past by being

the best wife that ever a man had!"

"Nay, my dear, you've got no call to talk like that. I've been a

wretched husband, and a bad father, and it's me as needs to ask

forgiveness. Don't cry, lass, now don't, it hurts me," and Jane

restrained her tears as quickly as possible, and with womanly tact

seated the baby on his knee, and sent the other children to crowd round

him while she made the tea; so that when they took their places at the

table the strangeness of the scene had well-nigh disappeared. The

children partook freely of the good things which Mrs. Martyn's care had

provided; but Richard and Jane found it hard work to touch anything, for

the tide of recollections that swept across them and threatened at times

to destroy their outward composure. After tea Jane anxiously watched her

husband's movements, and in terror saw him rise from his seat.

"You're not going out, Richard?" she pleaded.

"Nay, lass, don't be afraid," he said, kindly, "I'm only going to wash,

and make myself fit for the clean place and the clean wife."

Overjoyed, Jane bustled about, and quickly put the children to bed; and

when Richard entered the kitchen again, she was sitting with needle in

hand and a pile of ragged garments by her side.

"This looks like old times, Jane," he said.

"It's my fault that there's ever been any change, Richard," she

answered, humbly; "but if you'll only help me, we'll have our happy home

back again."

"I don't know what to say, Jane, to always staying at home with you. You

see, there's the club, and I'm almost bound to attend the meetings

sometimes, and they're held in the 'Green Dragon,' and when once a

fellow's there, he can't get away in a hurry."

"Oh, Richard, let the club go. It'll never do you any good, and unless

you break away altogether, it'll be the ruin of you."

Richard looked thoughtful, but said nothing.

Just then there was a knock at the door, and he started up, saying:

"That's some of my mates. I'll send them off to-night, Jane, anyhow."

"Oh, that it may be the kind gentleman who has promised to come!"

thought Jane.

It proved to be Mr. Martyn, and Richard waited with the door in his

hand, in doubt as to the stranger's errand.

"Are you Mr. Watson?" asked the gentleman. It was so long since Richard

had heard himself addressed in such a manner, that at first it did not

strike him that he was the man who bore that name.

"That's me, sir. Will you come in?"

Mr. Martyn walked into the kitchen, glanced round in pleased surprise,

and took the chair that Jane proffered.

"Now, Mr. Watson, I have only heard of you this afternoon, but I believe

you're just the man we want."

"Glad to help you in any way I can, sir," answered Richard, in much

surprise.

"Well, we have taken a hall down the road, here, and we want to fill it

with working-men whose evenings are free; make it a comfortable, homely

place, you know, with books, and papers, and harmless amusements, and an

occasional lecture or address, with, perhaps, a little speechifying

among the men, as some of them know how to talk sensibly. We only

commenced last week, but we are getting on nicely, and intend, on Sunday

evenings, holding a lively service, with plenty of singing. Will you

join us?" asked Mr. Martyn.

"I should like to, sir; but don't talk of me being the one to help you,

for I want helping myself. Perhaps you don't know; but I've been going

down, down, these six years and more, and I'm fairly sick when I think

what a fool I've made of myself," said Richard, with drooping head.

"Come, my friend," answered Mr. Martyn, with his hand on Richard's

shoulder: "that's the first step towards becoming a wiser man. The

second is, to make up your mind that the past shall be retrieved as far

as that is possible, and that for your wife and children's sake you'll

turn over a new leaf."

"It's easy to talk, sir, excuse me; but you don't know what that means

for a poor man like me," said Richard.

"I do know something about it," replied Mr. Martyn; "it means, every

day, facing, like a man, the taunts and jeers of your fellow-workmen. It

means fighting with all the power you have left, and all the power that

God can give you, against the terrible cravings of the appetite for

strong drink which you have created for yourself. It means giving up any

pleasure which you have found in the excitement of the tap-room, and the

company of your so-called friends. But let me tell you what else it

means. It means holding up your head, like a being created in God's

image, as you go through life. It means retaining the love of your wife

and children, and once more rejoicing in home comforts and fireside

joys; and, above all, it means putting away from you the greatest and

most effectual hindrance to your walking in the narrow way, which leads

to the heavenly home and eternal life, in the presence of God."

Richard was much stirred by Mr. Martyn's words. He buried his head in

his hands, and when he looked up again, there were traces of deep

emotion on his face.

"Sir," he said, "I thank you from my heart; it's all true, and a deal

more than you've said, but I never heard it put so plain before. I've a

mind to come round to your place to-night; leastways, if my poor wife'll

spare me," added Richard, with unaccustomed consideration.

"I shall be delighted, Richard, if you'll go; and thank you, a thousand

times, for your kindness, sir," said Jane, her face beaming.

"You can come, too, if you like, Mrs. Watson," said Mr. Martyn.

"Me, sir! Do you mean it?"

"Why of course. You don't think we give invitations to married men

without including their wives?"

"That's a new idea," said Richard, "but I don't know but what it's a

good one. We shouldn't get into half so much trouble as we do if our

wives went about with us more. I'm glad to have you, Jane; it's a long

spell since you and me went anywhere together."

Satisfied with the success of his errand, Mr. Martyn led the way,

chatting to his companions, until they entered the hall. There were many

working-men already there, some lounging in chairs, or on forms, with

their papers or books; others deeply interested in the game of chess, or

draughts. A few were smoking, with glasses of refreshing, but certainly

not intoxicating, beverage before them. Richard was wonderstruck at the

novel scene, and its air of thorough homeliness.

"This'll be the place for me, Jane," he whispered.

An address had been announced for that evening, and Mr. Martyn was

expected to speak. After leading Richard and his wife to seats, he

mounted the platform at the end of the room, and in a friendly, familiar

style, commenced to talk with the company. Most of them laid aside their

occupations, well pleased to listen to one who was known to be the

friend of working-men, and ever ready to help them in the difficulties

and temptations of their daily life. Like dew on thirsty ground fell his

wise suggestions, his timely warnings, his earnest counsels, upon the

ears and hearts of the new-comers.

Responding to the invitation with which he closed, they, with two or

three others, stepped forward and asked to sign the pledge, tremblingly

venturing to hope that even for them the future might hold a new life.

We may take the liberty of raising the curtain which conceals it from

their view, and assuring our readers that their hopes were realised, for

the old brightness and love found its way back into the home in which

sin and misery had reigned for years. Trusting no longer in their own

strength to keep the good resolutions with which they commenced the new

life, they found that He, whom they had slighted and forgotten, was not

only ready to forgive their past sin and folly, but was mighty to save

and keep them to the end of life's journey.

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTE:

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

Woolmer, 2 Castle Street, E.C.

[Illustration]

DOWNWARD STEPS.

"MAY the Holy Vargin an' all the blissid saints purtect us! Here's yer

father comin' up the coort as dhrunk as a pig. Get along inter hidin'

wid yer, childer!" So saying, Mrs. Ryan, who had been standing with her

baby in the doorway of her wretched home, gossiping with the neighbours,

stepped into her kitchen, and awaited the arrival of her drunken husband

with trepidation. "Maybe he'll tumble upsthairs an' slape off his

dhrops, bad cess to him for a nasthy silfish brute," she muttered.

But no, Donovan Ryan staggered into the kitchen, and greeted his wife

with an inane smile, which in no wise deceived her, taught by many an

experience, how more than likely it was that the next moment his tipsy

amiability might be exchanged for the utmost fury.

"An' what will I be gettin' for yer tay? Shure ye're home airly the

night," she tremblingly said.

"It's yersilf that's mighty oblagin' intoirely, an' hasn't Donovan Ryan,

at yer service, ma'am,"--making a low bow which nearly lost him his

unsteady balance,--"a right to kem to his own home whiniver it may plaze

him, widout askin' yer lave, ye miserable, dirthy, scoldin' broth uv a

wumman?"

Donovan had raised his voice from low, mocking accents to stentorian

tones, which shook the little room.

Poor Mrs. Ryan shrank further and further away.

"Shure, Donovan, I meant no harm at all, at all. Be aisy now; an' I'll

git ye a cup uv tay in a jiffy," she said, coaxingly.

But, according to his ideas, Donovan had received a grievous insult, and

there was only one way in which the said insult could be avenged; and,

being made of that stern, courageous stuff of which some few of our

British workmen are composed, he proceeded to teach Mrs. Ryan, in a very

practical manner, that she really must not venture to offend the

perfectly justifiable ideas which he held of his own importance and

dignity. In all wifely submission, as in duty bound, and according to

long-established custom, she made no demur to the very ordinary

proceeding which occupied Donovan's attention for the next few minutes.

"See what ye'll git for venturin' to interfare wid yer husban'," he

said, as he paused for want of breath.

With a well-directed kick at the prostrate form before him, and a few

genial imprecations on womankind in general and his own wife in

particular, he shuffled out of the house.

"He's been up to his tricks again; a beatin' of his poor wife. It's well

he ain't my husband. I'd never stand it as she does, poor creature,"

said one of the women who were standing about.

"I don't see how you'd prevent it; but I'm going in to see whether poor

Mrs. Ryan is quite done for."

Mrs. Fisher, the last speaker, left the group and entered her

neighbour's house. In response to a feeble "Come in," she opened the

kitchen door, which Donovan had slammed behind him. Mrs. Ryan was

sitting on the floor crying bitterly.

"I'm kilt intoirely, Mrs. Fisher, an' me poor babby's frighted to death.

Shure her father's a murtherin', battherin' wretch. I'll take him afore

the magisthrate, I will."

"Poor thing, let me see what I can do for you," said Mrs. Fisher.

A few womanly ministrations, a cup of tea and kindly words, and Mrs.

Ryan was comforted.

"Don't be thinkin' hardly uv Donovan. He's civil spoken an' kind enough

whin the dhrink's out uv him; an' I'll have to put up wid his cross

worruds an' his batin's, for he's me husban' an' the father uv me

childer," were her parting words to her neighbour.

It was easy to be seen that Mrs. Ryan had proved no dull scholar, but

had readily learned the manly logic that might is right almost as

perfectly as her husband had intended that she should.

"I'll keep your children to tea, Mrs. Ryan; and, if you like, they can

go with my Jimmie and Alice to some children's affair they're holding in

the school-room round the corner this evening."

"Shure ye're the bist uv neighbours an' I'm grateful to ye for riddin'

me uv the worrit uv of the childer for a spell. But will ye jist sind

Meg in afore she's off to the matin'? Me head's crazy, an' she must git

me a dhrop uv the craythur to put a bit uv spirit inter me."

Mrs. Fisher promised, and then left the house.

After tea, little Meg, a forlorn, wiry child of eight years, came in and

fetched the stimulant which her mother craved, and with which Mrs. Ryan

comforted herself over her trying lot.

About eight o'clock the little ones returned. Three unkempt, ragged

urchins, full of excitement about all they had witnessed.

"Oh, mother, sich pritty picthures, an' sich fine singin'. An' sich nice

spoken jintlemen an' ladies."

"An' sich swate cards wid ribbon to hang 'em up."

"An' what was it all about, thin?" asked the weary mother, roused to

interest.

Meg answered: "The jintlemen tould us that the dhrink was a curse an' a

shame, an' he said it made folks cruel an' bad--"

"Thrue for him!" interjected the mother.

"An' he said," continued Meg, "that it wad be betther for no wan niver

to touch it at all, at all, an' thin they wad niver git dhrunk. An' he

wanted all the childer in the room to sign a promise niver to put it to

their lips; an' heaps uv 'em wint up an' signed, an' got a card wid

their names on to hang up, an' Mrs. Fisher's Jimmie an' Alice signed.

An' we said we'd ax you, mammy, an' maybe you'd say, 'Yes,' an' thin we

could sign nixt week."

"Yes, an', mammy, we don't want to be like daddy whin we grow up, so we

may sign, mayn't we?" eagerly put in Teddie, the youngest.

"Ye might be worse nor yer poor father, an' don't ye say a worrud

against him; an' as for ye signin' the pledge, ye'll do no sich thing. A

dhrap uv the craythur now an' thin won't hurt a livin' soul; an' I'll

not have ye sit yersilves up to be betther nor yer own father an'

mother." And poor deluded Mrs. Ryan finished her third glass of hot

whiskey and water, and drained the sweet dregs into the open mouth of

her wan-faced baby.

A few days after, his drinking bout being over for the time being,

Donovan Ryan sat over the kitchen fire watching his wife's preparations

for tea.

"Shure, Patty, have ye heard that Harry Fisher has turned teetotal?" he

suddenly said.

"Niver, shurely, now; what's the likes uv him, as niver gits dhrunk more

nor wance in a blue moon, nade to be jhinin' a wake-minded, wathery set

like the teetotalers?" exclaimed Mrs. Ryan, in a tone of irritation.

Donovan stirred uneasily.

"Sorra am I the man to say he's made a misthake, for I'd jhine that same

set mesilf if I thought I'd howld out whin the dhrink craze takes me."

"I'd be ashamed to own ye for me husban' if ye made such a fool uv

yersilf, Donovan," cried his wife, with energy. "It's thrue enough ye

overstips the bounds uv sobriety oftener nor Harry Fisher, more shame to

ye; but to make out ye're afeard uv a dhrap uv the craythur, an' give

yer worrud niver to touch it, wad be to confess yersilf a poor wake

gossoon widout any sperrit in him at all, at all."

Mrs. Ryan was never afraid of her husband in his sober moments, as will

be readily observed. Indeed, at such times, he stood somewhat in awe of

her sharp tongue. On the present occasion she continued to rail against

water-drinkers and their weakmindedness, till, as if ashamed of the

moral cowardice he had evinced, Donovan said:

"Whist, wumman, hould yer tongue, ye've no nade to fear I'll jhine the

teetotalers, so make yer mind aisy on that point."

After which assurance Mrs. Ryan cooled down, and allowed her husband to

smoke his pipe in thoughtful silence.

"What on airth are ye thinkin' uv, Mrs. Fisher, to let yer husban' sign

against a dhrap uv good beer?" she said the next morning to her

neighbour.

"I'm downright glad he has, and I mean to do the same. You see, the

children's set the example, and were so earnest for their father to

sign, that he made up his mind to do so. I wish you'd let your little

ones do the same, and persuade your husband too."

"Bad cess to ye for settin' yerself up to be suparior to yer neighbours,

and advasin' uv them to follow yer example. Faix, I'd rather me husban'

git dhrunk ivery blissid day uv his life, an' bate me black and blue

inter the bargain, nor sign the pledge." And in high dudgeon Mrs. Ryan

went in, slamming her door behind her with great violence.

Weeks and months passed away, and still, in the dingy court where the

Ryans and Fishers lived, the same sad scenes of sin and degradation were

witnessed. One day it was rumoured that the Fishers were moving into a

better neighbourhood, which rumour proved to be correct.

"An' didn't I say as her ladyship, wid her illigant slips uv childer,

an' her jintleman husban' wad soon be too suparior intoirely to mix wid

the likes uv us. Axin' yer kind lave, shure it's Peggy Ryan as wishes ye

ivery blissin', an' has the honour uv givin' ye a partin' bit uv advace.

Lave yer dacint neighbours alone, an' don't hould yer head up so high,

me dear." Thus saying, Mrs. Ryan stood in front of Mrs. Fisher, who was

about to follow her goods and chattels out of the court, and, to the

amusement of the bystanders, spread out her scanty skirts, and made a

sweeping curtesy. For some time past Mrs. Fisher had found it difficult

to live peaceably among her neighbours, proving how advantageous to

health and pocket her own and her husband's Temperance principles had

been, they had both tried to secure adherents to the good cause. They

had met with little success, and in some instances, notably that of Mrs.

Ryan, had earned for themselves continual abuse and scorn.

Years passed and Donovan Ryan went down to a drunkard's grave unwept and

unhonoured. With rapid footsteps his wife followed him, leaving to the

children as her legacy, the craving for intoxicants which had been

engendered in their infancy and ministered to with such assiduity in

following years.

Is the story improbable, impossible? No, for thousands of lives cursed

with the disease of drink attest its truth.

There was a ray of hope seen; there was help offered in earlier years;

but some hand, perhaps that of the wife and mother, quenched the hope,

and thrust aside the offered help, and forced those for whose salvation

it was responsible into paths of ever-deepening darkness and rayless

despair.

[Illustration]

HOW JARVIS WAS SAVED.

"IT'S quite true, ma'am, I've been a drinker; but, indeed, I've given it

up, and if you'll only give me a chance of redeeming my character, you

shan't ever regret it."

The lady who was thus addressed looked up from the letter she had been

reading, somewhat doubtfully, at the speaker who was a woman past her

early youth, red-faced and coarse-featured, but with honest gray eyes

and a set mouth that bore witness to the purpose indicated by her words.

"But you lost your last situation by giving way to drink," said Mrs.

Reston.

"Yes, ma'am, I did. I had got into the habit, and nothing was kept

locked up, and I couldn't help taking it when the longing came on me."

The woman was singularly frank the lady thought, and after further

conversation, it was decided that she should enter Mrs. Reston's service

as cook.

"You will find no temptation to drink here," said Mrs. Reston. "I keep

all intoxicants under lock and key, and the housemaid does not take

anything of the kind. So you see, if you really wish to reform you have

a good chance, and, indeed, if I did not think you were sincere in your

wish to turn over a new leaf, I would not engage you."

The woman's voice broke a little as she thanked her future mistress and

left the house.

"Really, Edmund, I was so struck by her intense desire to begin a new

life, and as in every other respect her character was unimpeachable, I

thought here was a fine opportunity of putting the golden rule into

practice," replied Mrs. Reston to her husband's remonstrances upon the

rashness of her proceeding.

"What a woman you are! You know that such an argument is unanswerable,

and I must retreat from the field vanquished," laughingly remonstrated

the husband, and the matter dropped.

"Now, Jarvis," said Mrs. Reston, when a few mornings later she had given

her orders to the new cook, "I dare say you will miss your usual

stimulant for some time, and you are quite at liberty to make yourself

coffee or cocoa whenever you wish, and if there is any other way in

which you may be helped to fight against your besetment let me know, for

I want you to look upon me as your friend."

Cook stammered something unintelligible, and, somewhat surprised at her

agitation, Mrs. Reston left the kitchen.

"If this don't beat everything! Nothing but lectures and black looks

have I ever had before, and now to think of a real lady speaking so

kind, and saying she wanted to be my friend!" And, in her excess of

astonishment and emotion, Jarvis stood and watched the milk for the

pudding she was about to make boil over, and then mechanically emptied

what remained into the coffee dregs which were yet standing on the

breakfast table. Weeks passed away and Mr. Reston ceased to tease his

wife about her latest philanthropic effort, and Mrs. Reston forgot to

watch Jarvis with anxiety, and dismissed all misgivings as to the

prudence of the step she had taken.

"Breakfast not ready yet! how's this?" asked Mr. Reston one morning,

entering the dining-room at the usual time, to find the housemaid just

commencing to lay the cloth, and his wife looking troubled.

"It can't be helped, dear. Symonds has been single-handed this morning,

for Jarvis is not down yet," replied Mrs. Reston. Her husband raised his

eyebrows and coughed significantly as he sat down and took up his

newspaper.

"What's the matter with your paragon, my dear?" he presently said.

"I haven't asked her yet," was the dry answer. Mr. Reston thought he had

better not pursue the subject, and relapsed into silence. After he had

left the house, Mrs. Reston examined the contents of the cellaret, and

came to the conclusion that Jarvis had been helping herself in large

quantities from the stores of wine and spirits kept there.

She had been visiting with her husband the previous evening, and the

housemaid had also been out, thus leaving every opportunity for Jarvis

to indulge in the stimulants she had stolen.

Mrs. Reston also remembered that on returning home she had found the key

of the cellaret, which she had missed, lying on the floor close to the

side-board, and the door locked as usual. Symonds had come in to prayers

alone, and said that cook had gone to bed with a bad headache.

"Send Jarvis to me as soon as she comes down," she said to the

housemaid, who answered her summons.

"It's too disappointing," she soliloquised; "I felt so positive that

Jarvis would do well; I am sure there is nothing I have left undone to

help her in her attempts to abstain." Kind, good Mrs. Reston, there is

just one thing you have left undone; but when you shortly learn how you

have failed to do all that was necessary to effectually help your weak

sister, will you have sufficient courage and love to enable you to

remedy the past and help to save a soul from perishing in its sin?

There was a knock at the door, and Jarvis entered with swollen, downcast

eyes and face redder than usual.

"Well, Jarvis," said Mrs. Reston, after a moment's silence.

"I've got nothing to say, ma'am; I can go as soon as you like," sullenly

replied the woman.

Mrs. Reston sighed. Was it any use to give Jarvis another trial, or

should she send her away at once? She looked at the half-averted face

and the nervous hands that were busily folding and unfolding the hem of

her apron, and with a wave of pity surging in her heart for the sinning,

suffering creature before her, said quickly and tenderly:

"But I don't want you to go, Jarvis. I want to save you, if you will let

me. Come, tell me what else I can do for you."

Jarvis looked up, half doubting the evidence of her senses.

"Ma'am," she gasped, between heavy, choking sobs; "do you really mean to

say that you care about saving such an ungrateful wretch as me?"

"Why, Jarvis, of course I do. I will do _anything_ to help you."

"Would you, oh would you do anything, ma'am?"

Again Mrs. Reston repeated the assurance. Battling with her emotion,

Jarvis said: "I'm ashamed to ask such a favour at your hands, ma'am, but

I believe there's only one thing under heaven that would be the saving

of me."

"What is that, Jarvis?"

There was a long pause, and then Jarvis blurted out: "I've never signed

the pledge, ma'am; but if you'd draw up some kind of a promise to keep

from the drink, and put your own name to it, and let me sign after, it

would be the saving of me."

"What a strange thing to ask, Jarvis! What good would it do you to know

that I, who am always moderate in my use of stimulants, had given them

up?"

"Oh, ma'am, it would make me feel that somebody in this wide world cared

enough for me to give up something for my sake. I've never had any one

to care for me since my mother died fifteen years ago. I made up my mind

that I would be independent of every one and look after myself, and when

I felt dull I just took a glass, until I got into the habit of taking

too much. When I came here you were so kind to me that I couldn't help

feeling you were different to my other mistresses who only seemed to

care how much they could get out of me, and I've been that grateful,

ma'am, I would have done anything for you; but last night I got low, and

the longing for drink took me, and something whispered: 'There's your

mistress for all her kind words, she's none so different as the rest of

them, only she's got another way with her. You're a good cook and suit

her well while you keep from the drink, and she thinks if she speaks

fair she'll manage you well enough.' And then, ma'am, I thought of your

beautiful wines which you could take without any harm to yourself,

while my beer had done such cruel work for me, and suddenly the thought

came: 'Why, your mistress cares for those luxuries that she takes every

day far more than she does for you, you poor thing; she wouldn't give

them up to save you from filling a drunkard's grave.' Then I grew

desperate, and came in here to see if there was anything left about, and

the key for once was in the side-board, and, and----"

"Yes, I know, my poor Jarvis, and now let me tell you that I do care

more for you a thousand times than for the luxuries you speak of, and to

prove it, I will never touch them again. I promise that, for your sake,

Jarvis, do you understand?" For Jarvis was standing looking stupified.

Her wide-open eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she fell at her

mistress' feet, and seizing her hand covered it with kisses.

"Oh, ma'am, you've saved me, you've saved me," she said again and again.

Yes, Jarvis was saved. From that time she steadily fought against her

deadly sin, until its besetment lost all power over her.

After years of devoted service she became the happy wife of one who

loved and trusted her, and to whom she confided the story of her past

degradation, and how she was reclaimed by the efforts and self-sacrifice

of her former mistress.

[Illustration]

WHY THE ANGELS REJOICED.

"GOOD-NIGHT, Mrs. Seymour. Must you leave so quickly?" asked a lady of

an elderly woman, who was hurrying past her pew with the stream of

worshippers that were leaving the chapel after the Sabbath-evening

service was ended, without waiting for the short prayer-meeting which

usually followed.

"Yes, ma'am, I can't wait a minute longer, for my husband's promised to

go to the Mission Hall, and the angels are going to rejoice to-night,"

answered Margaret Seymour with a radiant light of expectancy upon her

pale face.

"God grant that you may not be disappointed," returned the lady, with a

cordial pressure of the hand, and, as Margaret hastened out, her friend

inwardly marvelled at the strong faith which, during a lifetime of

neglect and cruelty, had sustained her poorer sister through terrible

seasons of hardship and toil.

Margaret Seymour had early left a Christian home to become the wife of a

man, who, destitute of any real religion himself, soon commenced to mock

and persecute the woman who had been induced to take a false step,

hoping to win her husband to seek for himself the joys which were hers.

But, hitherto, the hope had proved vain. Richard Seymour had sunk lower

and lower, until, enfeebled in health by his drunkenness and follies,

his family mainly depended upon the exertions of the wife and mother for

daily bread. Still, Margaret's faith did not fail. If she worked

incessantly all day long, and often far into the night, her prayers went

up without intermission to the Throne of Grace. There had been a time

when she had trusted the answer was at hand, for her husband had been

induced to attend a small Mission Hall near by, and whilst there had

been powerfully moved, and for a few weeks had given up some of his

sinful pursuits; but just when Margaret and the friends from the Hall

were beginning to rejoice over Richard as a "brand plucked from the

burning," he fell back into his former habits.

Margaret was sorely disappointed; but, casting herself again upon the

faithful word of her God, she took up the cross apportioned to her, and

went on her way in confident assurance of coming blessing. But for some

weeks past her desire for her husband's salvation had intensified, and

she had felt moved to pray with an earnestness that surprised even

herself. Her cry became that of the patriarch: "I will not let Thee go,

except Thou bless me." But no apparent result manifested itself. Indeed,

Richard appeared to grow more hardened and desperate than ever, and it

required all the grace and patience that Margaret possessed, to endure

his continual cruelty with meekness.

On the Saturday evening preceding the Sunday when she had expressed her

conviction of a joyful termination to her anxious watching, a knock was

heard at her door, and opening it, the kindly face of one of the workers

from the Mission Hall was seen.

"Is your husband in, Mrs. Seymour?" asked the man.

"Yes," answered Margaret, in an undertone, "he's just sitting down a bit

before going out for the evening; but come in and you'll catch him

nicely."

"Good-evening, Mr. Seymour, I'm glad to find you at home," were the

words that caused Richard to look up in angry surprise.

"Evenin'," he muttered by way of reply, without removing his pipe from

his mouth.

"I'm real sorry to have missed you from the Hall for so long, Mr.

Seymour, and I've been wondering whether you meant to leave us

altogether. We only want to be your friends, you know, and you don't

want to run away from those who would do you a good turn if you'd let

them," said the worker, nothing daunted by his ungracious reception.

Again Richard looked up, and perhaps the fact that his visitor was a

working-man not much above his own station in life, rendered him more

susceptible to the attention shown him. And besides, the spoken words

were not mere empty talk, Richard could not but acknowledge; for

practical help in dire need had found its way to the poverty-stricken

home, from the Christian friends who had rallied round his wife. So,

with half-shamed face, he answered gruffly:

"I didn't think of comin' again; such places ain't for the likes of me."

"And who do you think they are for then? Why, my man, it's poor folks

like you and me, who wouldn't feel comfortable in grand churches and

chapels, that want such homely places, where we can slip in and out

without being looked down upon."

"Maybe you're right so fur; but you don't want no smokin', drinkin'

fellers, anyhow," responded Richard.

"You're making another mistake, Mr. Seymour; for the truth is, we're

better pleased to see them turn up than any other sort of folks; so

you'd better give me leave to call for you to-morrow evening at eight

o'clock, before the service begins."

"Well, I'm beat. You mean to take it out of me, somehow, and I may as

well give in, but you needn't trouble to call. I'll come, sure enough."

"That's settled," said the man, rising to go, adding, as he offered his

hand to Richard, "You won't forget."

"No fear, with my old woman to pester me," answered Richard, with a grim

relaxing of his features. But as the door closed behind the visitor, his

face darkened, and, although he said nothing to his wife, he sat

gloomily watching the fire for a long time, then, muttering something

about "them interferin' folks," he put his pipe into his pocket, and

passed out into the street.

"God grant they may have interfered to some purpose!" said Margaret.

Hastily finishing the domestic duties which were filling her hands, she

turned for encouragement to the Book which had proved its power to

solace and cheer in the darkest hour. Presently, with thought and desire

too intense to allow the usual posture of devotion, she rose, and began

to pace her kitchen, while she wrestled and interceded for her sinning

husband. It was during that memorable hour of strong crying, that the

sweet assurance of a speedy answer was given; and the language of

petition no longer poured from her lips, but gave place to that of

thanksgiving for another repenting one, over whom there would shortly be

rejoicing "in the presence of the angels."

But to the eye of sense, nothing seemed more unlikely, as Richard

staggered home late that night in his usual drunken condition, and rose

the next morning in the worst of tempers, following her footsteps from

place to place, with the evident purpose of provoking her with his cruel

taunts, until she should retaliate. Clothed in the armour of God,

Margaret, however, withstood all the fiery darts that were flung around

her during that eventful day. As the winter afternoon waned, she

observed, with uneasiness, that Richard made no attempt to change the

working clothes in which he had lounged about all day, for the better

suit and the clean shirt, which she had managed by dint of self-denial

should never be wanting.

"I'm pretty sure he'll make that his excuse for not going to the Hall

to-night; but there, the Lord isn't confined to that place, and He can

just as well save Richard in his dirty shirt at home, if He thinks best,

as up there; and He's going to do it, sure enough; for didn't He tell me

the angels should rejoice over him?" she said to herself. She ventured,

however, a quiet remonstrance, saying: "Your Sunday things are laid out,

Richard, and you'd better get a wash; you'll feel fresher." But the only

answer she received was a curt: "Mind your own business, woman."

Meanwhile, Richard himself was feeling his own misery more deeply than

he would have confessed to a living soul. "I'd like to escape from it

all; but I've gone too far; I've had my chances, if ever a man had, and

I'd like to know what good'll come of my goin' to the Hall and seein'

all those folks again; it'll only make me more miserable than I am. I

wish I hadn't promised, and I've half a mind to turn into the 'Blue

Boar' instead," muttered the man to himself.

"Richard," said his wife as she put on bonnet and shawl, and picked up

her Bible and hymn-book, after tea was over; "I'm going up to the

chapel, but the sermon will be over in plenty of time for me to get back

to the Mission-place. You'll be sure to be dressed and ready waiting for

me."

"I shan't promise nothin'," growled Richard; but although Margaret heard

the words as she went out, she left the house with a light heart.

Altogether uncertain of his own intention, Richard strode about the

room, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets.

"Anyhow," he said, "I may as well have a look at the water," and going

to the sink he washed himself for the first time that day. And then he

sat down, making no further attempt to prepare himself for his wife's

return. "She never lets a feller have any peace," he said, inwardly

blaming her for his mental unrest. He was sitting in his chair, still

smoking, when Margaret returned.

"O, Richard, you are not ready, and we shall be late!" she said.

"I never told you I was goin'," he answered, scowling at her.

"No, but you told Mr. Brown so, last night; and if you aren't there

soon, he's sure to come round, and see what's the matter, as he would be

certain to suppose you'd keep your promise unless something had

happened."

Surely it was heaven-sent wisdom that breathed in the words with which

she answered Richard's evasions. She was unprepared for the sudden

effect of her reply. Rising in haste, he said: "Here, get me my things

as quick as you can; I don't want that feller again." In a few minutes,

neatly dressed, Richard went up the street with his rejoicing wife.

They were singing as the two entered; but Margaret walked boldly up to

the top of the room, and Richard was reluctantly compelled to follow

her. He would have chosen to have slipped into the first seat by the

door, from whence egress could have been easy; but his wife determined

that once within those four walls, Richard should stay until the end of

the meeting. So she allowed him to pass into his seat first, and then

she followed him. But there was little fear of Richard being anxious to

leave the place; for, after the first prayer, he sat spell-bound, and

riveted to the spot, while the Holy Spirit revealed to him his guilt and

sin. His wasted life rose before him until the burden of his misery

seemed too great to be borne, and he could no longer prevent groans and

tears from bearing witness to his anguish of soul.

"Come and speak to my poor husband, will you, please, Mr. Brown?" said

Margaret, as the people were dispersing. The man crossed the room, and

sought to pour in the balm of Gilead to the wounded conscience.

"You don't think he died for such a big sinner as me?" was the response.

"Why, man, you don't know what a life I've led my poor wife there! She's

been beaten and kicked, and half-starved most of her time, while I've

spent my money in what's ruined body and soul, and you mean to tell me

that I may be saved from the hell I deserve?"

"Yes, I mean just that, and the Saviour tells you so in His own words;

so there can be no doubt about it."

"Let me know quick what He says," groaned the man. Mr. Brown took a

pocket Bible from his coat and read the following passages:

"Then will I sprinkle clean water upon you and ye shall be clean: from

all your filthiness and from all your idols, will I cleanse you." "The

Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost." "I am not

come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." "Come unto Me,

all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." "Him

that cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast out."

"Do you mean to say that's written all fair and square, in black and

white?" asked Richard, who had been listening with open mouth to the

slow reading of the inspired words.

"Yes, I do; here, look for yourself." Richard grasped the book and,

following the direction of Mr. Brown's finger, with difficulty spelled

out for himself the blessed promises and invitations. As he reluctantly

handed the Bible back, a sigh of relief broke from him, and he

exclaimed: "Ay, it's there, sure enough! so He came to call sinners, did

He? drunkards like me!" A wonderful light overspread his face, and as

the truth broke fully upon his troubled mind, he started to his feet

crying out: "O, what a mighty Saviour! Bless Him, bless Him, for He died

for me!" The workers gathered round in silent joy as the shout of a King

rang through the place; but Margaret fell upon her knees and broke into

praise that was surely no faint echo of the exulting song which pealed

through the courts of heaven as the glad tidings were proclaimed of

another soul new-born into the liberty of the sons of God.

"Ah, my dear," said Richard to his wife, as late at night they sat

together in their home: "I've been a brute to you and the children; but,

God helping me, I'll make amends."

"Don't trust to yourself, Richard, my dear; you'll get plenty of chaff

from your mates, and plenty of temptation from within, and you must look

for help to Him who's got all needful strength and grace for you,"

replied Margaret, as they sat and talked with one another far on into

the early morning.

* * * * *

"I say, nurse, can't you give this 'ere feller a sleepin' draught, or

summat as will keep his mouth shut for a spell? There's no such thing as

gettin' a wink o' sleep with him a shoutin' 'glory' all the time," said

a rough man who was occupying one of the beds in the infirmary.

"Poor fellow! it's a wonder to me how he can bear so much suffering and

never open his lips to complain," answered the nurse, turning her kindly

eyes towards the adjoining bed, where lay Richard Seymour, wasted by the

ravages of a sore disease, doubtless the result of early excess and long

years of intemperance. After witnessing a good confession of his faith

before ungodly companions, and for his Master's sake enduring scorn and

persecution nobly, he had suddenly been laid low on the bed of death.

"You needn't make any wonder of it, nurse," he answered; "I don't feel

as if I could grumble at my pain when my blessed Lord suffered on the

cross for me--praise His dear name!"

"Queer kind of a chap, ain't he?" said the man who had first spoken,

moving uneasily in his bed.

"Ay, Jim, I wish you knew what it was to feel 'queer' after the same

fashion. You may if you like, you know; the same mercy's for you as for

me, and O, mates!" said Richard, looking round upon the rows of faces

that were turned towards him; "it may be 'queer;' but it's worth while

havin' somethin' that will make you so happy when you come to face

death, that you can't sleep for thinkin' of the blessed Saviour, and how

He's waitin' for you."

So Richard testified to his fellow-sufferers until the last. Early one

morning the nurse heard him whisper faintly: "I'll soon be at home over

there." The next moment he quietly closed his eyes in death. Verily, a

brand plucked from the burning, a sinner saved by grace.

[Illustration]

FLETCHER AND SON, PRINTERS, NORWICH.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 43, "caligraphy" changed to "calligraphy" (calligraphy with an air)

Page 53, "want's" changed to "wants" (this gentleman wants)

Page 88, "it's" changed to "its" (ha' its turn)

Page 115, "want's" changed to "wants" (if the babby wants)