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TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR ROOM

BY

T. S. ARTHUR

CONTENTS

  NIGHT THE FIRST--THE "SICKLE AND SHEAF."
  NIGHT THE SECOND--THE CHANGES OF A YEAR.
  NIGHT THE THIRD--JOE MORGAN'S CHILD.
  NIGHT THE FOURTH--DEATH OF LITTLE MARY MORGAN.
  NIGHT THE FIFTH--SOME OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF TAVERN-KEEPING.
  NIGHT THE SIXTH--MORE CONSEQUENCES.
  NIGHT THE SEVENTH--SOWING THE WIND.
  NIGHT THE EIGHTH--REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
  NIGHT THE NINTH--A FEARFUL CONSUMMATION.
  NIGHT THE TENTH--THE CLOSING SCENE AT THE "SICKLE AND SHEAF."

NIGHT THE FIRST.

THE "SICKLE AND SHEAF."

Ten years ago, business required me to pass a day in Cedarville. It was
late in the afternoon when the stage set me down at the "Sickle and
Sheaf," a new tavern, just opened by a new landlord, in a new house,
built with the special end of providing "accommodations for man and
beast." As I stepped from the dusty old vehicle in which I had been
jolted along a rough road for some thirty miles, feeling tired and
hungry, the good-natured face of Simon Slade, the landlord, beaming as
it did with a hearty welcome, was really a pleasant sight to see, and
the grasp of his hand was like that of a true friend.

I felt as I entered the new and neatly furnished sitting-room adjoining
the bar, that I had indeed found a comfortable resting-place after my
wearisome journey.

"All as nice as a new pin," said I, approvingly, as I glanced around
the room, up to the ceiling--white as the driven snow--and over the
handsomely carpeted floor. "Haven't seen anything so inviting as this.
How long have you been open?"

"Only a few months," answered the gratified landlord. "But we are not
yet in good going order. It takes time, you know, to bring everything
into the right shape. Have you dined yet?"

"No. Everything looked so dirty at the stage-house, where we stopped to
get dinner, that I couldn't venture upon the experiment of eating. How
long before your supper will be ready?"

"In an hour," replied the landlord.

"That will do. Let me have a nice piece of tender steak, and the loss
of dinner will soon be forgotten."

"You shall have that, cooked fit for an alderman," said the landlord.
"I call my wife the best cook in Cedarville."

As he spoke, a neatly dressed girl, about sixteen years of age, with
rather an attractive countenance, passed through the room.

"My daughter," said the landlord, as she vanished through the door.
There was a sparkle of pride in the father's eyes, and a certain
tenderness in the tones of his voice, as he said "My daughter" that
told me she was very dear to him.

"You are a happy man to have so fair a child," said I, speaking more in
compliment than with a careful choice of words.

"I am a happy man," was the landlord's smiling answer; his fair, round
face, unwrinkled by a line of care or trouble, beaming with
self-satisfaction. "I have always been a happy man, and always expect
to be. Simon Slade takes the world as it comes, and takes it easy. My
son, sir," he added, as a boy, in his twelfth year, came in. "Speak to
the gentleman."

The boy lifted to mine a pair of deep blue eyes, from which innocence
beamed, as he offered me his hand, and said, respectfully--"How do you
do, sir?" I could not but remark the girl-like beauty of his face, in
which the hardier firmness of the boy's character was already visible.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Frank, sir."

"Frank is his name," said the landlord--"we called him after his uncle.
Frank and Flora--the names sound pleasant to the ears. But you know
parents are apt to be a little partial and over fond."

"Better that extreme than its opposite," I remarked.

"Just what I always say. Frank, my son,"--the landlord spoke to the
boy--"there's some one in the bar. You can wait on him as well as I
can."

The lad glided from the room in ready obedience.

"A handy boy that, sir; a very handy boy. Almost as good, in the bar as
a man. He mixes a toddy or a punch just as well as I can."

"But," I suggested, "are you not a little afraid of placing one so
young in the way of temptation?"

"Temptation!" The open brows of Simon Slade contracted a little. "No,
sir!" he replied, emphatically. "The till is safer under his care than
it would be in that of one man in ten. The boy comes, sir, of honest
parents. Simon Slade never wronged anybody out of a farthing."

"Oh," said I, quickly, "you altogether misapprehend me. I had no
reference to the till, but to the bottle."

The landlord's brows were instantly unbent, and a broad smile circled
over his good-humored face.

"Is that all? Nothing to fear, I can assure you. Frank has no taste for
liquor, and might pour it out for mouths without a drop finding its way
to his lips. Nothing to apprehend there, sir--nothing."

I saw that further suggestions of danger would be useless, and so
remained silent. The arrival of a traveler called away the landlord,
and I was left alone for observation and reflection. The bar adjoined
the neat sitting-room, and I could see, through the open door, the
customer upon whom the lad was attending. He was a well-dressed young
man--or rather boy, for he did not appear to be over nineteen years of
age--with a fine, intelligent face, that was already slightly marred by
sensual indulgence. He raised the glass to his lips, with a quick,
almost eager motion, and drained it at a single draught.

"Just right," said he, tossing a sixpence to the young bar-tender. "You
are first rate at a brandy-toddy. Never drank a better in my life."

The lad's smiling face told that he was gratified by the compliment. To
me the sight was painful, for I saw that this youthful tippler was on
dangerous ground.

"Who is that young man in the bar?" I asked, a few minutes afterward,
on being rejoined by the landlord.

Simon Slade stepped to the door and looked into the bar for a moment.

Two or three men were there by this time; but he was at no loss in
answering my question.

"Oh, that's a son of Judge Hammond, who lives in the large brick house
as you enter the village. Willy Hammond, as everybody familiarly calls
him, is about the finest young man in our neighborhood. There is
nothing proud or put-on about him--nothing--even if his father is a
judge, and rich into the bargain. Every one, gentle or simple, likes
Willy Hammond. And then he is such good company. Always so cheerful,
and always with a pleasant story on his tongue. And he's so
high-spirited withal, and so honorable. Willy Hammond would lose his
right hand rather than be guilty of a mean action."

"Landlord!" The voice came loud from the road in front of the house,
and Simon Slade again left me to answer the demands of some new-comer.
I went into the bar-room, in order to take a closer observation of
Willy Hammond, in whom an interest, not unmingled with concern, had
already been awakened in my mind. I found him engaged in a pleasant
conversation with a plain-looking farmer, whose homely, terse, common
sense was quite as conspicuous as his fine play of words and lively
fancy. The farmer was a substantial conservative, and young Hammond a
warm admirer of new ideas and the quicker adaptation of means to ends.
I soon saw that his mental powers were developed beyond his years,
while his personal qualities were strongly attractive. I understood
better, after being a silent listener and observer for ten minutes, why
the landlord had spoken of him so warmly.

"Take a brandy-toddy, Mr. H--?" said Hammond, after the discussion
closed, good humoredly. "Frank, our junior bar-keeper here, beats his
father, in that line."

"I don't care if I do," returned the farmer; and the two passed up to
the bar.

"Now, Frank, my boy, don't belie my praises," said the young man; "do
your handsomest."

"Two brandy-toddies, did you say?" Frank made inquiry with quite a
professional air.

"Just what I did say; and let them be equal to Jove's nectar."

Pleased at this familiarity, the boy went briskly to his work of mixing
the tempting compound, while Hammond looked on with an approving smile.

"There," said the latter, as Frank passed the glasses across the
counter, "if you don't call that first-rate, you're no judge." And he
handed one of them to the farmer, who tasted the agreeable draught, and
praised its flavor. As before, I noticed that Hammond drank eagerly,
like one athirst--emptying his glass without once taking it from his
lips.

Soon after the bar-room was empty; and then I walked around the
premises, in company with the landlord, and listened to his praise of
everything and his plans and purposes for the future. The house, yard,
garden, and out-buildings were in the most perfect order; presenting,
in the whole, a model of a village tavern.

"Whatever I do, sir," said the talkative Simon Slade, "I like to do
well. I wasn't just raised to tavern-keeping, you must know; but I am
one who can turn his hand to almost any thing."

"What was your business?" I inquired.

"I'm a miller, sir, by trade," he answered--"and a better miller,
though I say it myself, is not to be found in Bolton county. I've
followed milling these twenty years, and made some little money. But I
got tired of hard work, and determined to lead an easier life. So I
sold my mill, and built this house with the money. I always thought I'd
like tavern-keeping. It's an easy life; and, if rightly seen after, one
in which a man is sure to make money."

"You were still doing a fair business with your mill?"

"Oh, yes. Whatever I do, I do right. Last year, I put by a thousand
dollars above all expenses, which is not bad, I can assure you, for a
mere grist mill. If the present owner comes out even, he'll do well!"

"How is that?"

"Oh, he's no miller. Give him the best wheat that is grown, and he'll
ruin it in grinding. He takes the life out of every grain. I don't
believe he'll keep half the custom that I transferred with the mill."

"A thousand dollars, clear profit, in so useful a business, ought to
have satisfied you," said I.

"There you and I differ," answered the landlord. "Every man desires to
make as much money as possible, and with the least labor. I hope to
make two or three thousand dollars a year, over and above all expenses,
at tavern-keeping. My bar alone ought to yield me that sum. A man with
a wife and children very naturally tries to do as well by them as
possible."

"Very true; but," I ventured to suggest, "will this be doing as well by
them as if you had kept on at the mill?"

"Two or three thousand dollars a year against one thousand! Where are
your figures, man?"

"There may be something beyond money to take into the account," said I.

"What?" inquired Slade, with a kind of half credulity.

"Consider the different influences of the two callings in life--that of
a miller and a tavern-keeper."

"Well, say on."

"Will your children be as safe from temptation here as in their former
home?"

"Just as safe," was the unhesitating answer. "Why not?"

I was about to speak of the alluring glass in the case of Frank, but
remembering that I had already expressed a fear in that direction, felt
that to do so again would be useless, and so kept silent.

"A tavern-keeper," said Slade, "is just as respectable as a miller--in
fact, the very people who used to call me 'Simon' or 'Neighbor
Dustycoat,' now say 'Landlord,' or 'Mr. Slade,' and treat me in every
way more as if I were an equal than ever they did before."

"The change," said I, "may be due to the fact of your giving evidence
of possessing some means. Men are very apt to be courteous to those who
have property. The building of the tavern has, without doubt,
contributed to the new estimation in which you are held."

"That isn't all," replied the landlord. "It is because I am keeping a
good tavern, and thus materially advancing the interests of Cedarville,
that some of our best people look at me with different eyes."

"Advancing the interests of Cedarville! In what way?" I did not
apprehend his meaning.

"A good tavern always draws people to a place, while a miserable old
tumble-down of an affair, badly kept, such as we have had for years, as
surely repels them. You can generally tell something about the
condition of a town by looking at its taverns. If they are well kept,
and doing a good business, you will hardly be wrong in the conclusion
that the place is thriving. Why, already, since I built and opened the
'Sickle and Sheaf,' property has advanced over twenty per cent along
the whole street, and not less than five new houses have been
commenced."

"Other causes, besides the simple opening of a new tavern, may have
contributed to this result," said I.

"None of which I am aware. I was talking with Judge Hammond only
yesterday--he owns a great deal of ground on the street--and he did not
hesitate to say, that the building and opening of a good tavern here
had increased the value of his property at least five thousand dollars.
He said, moreover, that he thought the people of Cedarville ought to
present me with a silver pitcher; and that, for one, he would
contribute ten dollars for that purpose."

The ringing of the supper bell interrupted further conversation; and
with the best of appetites, I took my way to the room, where a
plentiful meal was spread. As I entered, I met the wife of Simon Slade,
just passing out, after seeing that every thing was in order. I had not
observed her before; and now could not help remarking that she had a
flushed, excited countenance, as if she had been over a hot fire, and
was both worried and fatigued. And there was, moreover, a peculiar
expression of the mouth, never observed in one whose mind is entirely
at ease--an expression that once seen is never forgotten. The face
stamped itself instantly on my memory; and I can even now recall it
with almost the original distinctness. How strongly it contrasted with
that of her smiling, self-satisfied husband, who took his place at the
head of his table with an air of conscious importance. I was too hungry
to talk much, and so found greater enjoyment in eating than in
conversation. The landlord had a more chatty guest by his side, and I
left them to entertain each other, while I did ample justice to the
excellent food with which the table was liberally provided.

After supper I went to the sitting-room, and remained there until the
lamps were lighted. A newspaper occupied my time for perhaps half an
hour; then the buzz of voices from the adjoining bar-room, which had
been increasing for some time, attracted my attention, and I went in
there to see and hear what was passing. The first person upon whom my
eyes rested was young Hammond, who sat talking with a man older than
himself by several years. At a glance, I saw that this man could only
associate himself with Willy Hammond as a tempter. Unscrupulous
selfishness was written all over his sinister countenance; and I
wondered that it did not strike every one, as it did me, with instant
repulsion. There could not be, I felt certain, any common ground of
association, for two such persons, but the dead level of a village
bar-room. I afterward learned, during the evening, that this man's name
was Harvey Green, and that he was an occasional visitor at Cedarville,
remaining a few days, or a few weeks at a time, as appeared to suit his
fancy, and having no ostensible business or special acquaintance with
anybody in the village.

"There is one thing about him," remarked Simon Slade, in answering some
question that I put in reference to the man, "that I don't object to;
he has plenty of money, and is not at all niggardly in spending it. He
used to come here, so he told me, about once in five or six months; but
his stay at the miserably kept tavern, the only one then in Cedarville,
was so uncomfortable, that he had pretty well made up his mind never to
visit us again. Now, however, he has engaged one of my best rooms, for
which he pays me by the year, and I am to charge him full board for the
time he occupies it. He says that there is something about Cedarville
that always attracts him; and that his health is better while here than
it is anywhere except South during the winter season. He'll never leave
less than two or three hundred dollars a year in our village--there is
one item, for you, of advantage to a place in having a good tavern."

"What is his business?" I asked. "Is he engaged in any trading
operations?"

The landlord shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly mysterious, as
he answered:

"I never inquire about the business of a guest. My calling is to
entertain strangers. If they are pleased with my house, and pay my
bills on presentation, I have no right to seek further. As a miller, I
never asked a customer, whether he raised, bought, or stole his wheat.
It was my business to grind it, and I took care to do it well. Beyond
that, it was all his own affair. And so it will be in my new calling. I
shall mind my own business and keep my own place."

Besides young Hammond and this Harvey Green, there were in the
bar-room, when I entered, four others besides the landlord. Among these
was a Judge Lyman--so he was addressed--a man between forty and fifty
years of age, who had a few weeks before received the Democratic
nomination for member of Congress. He was very talkative and very
affable, and soon formed a kind of centre of attraction to the bar-room
circle. Among other topics of conversation that came up was the new
tavern, introduced by the landlord, in whose mind it was, very
naturally, the uppermost thought.

"The only wonder to me is," said Judge Lyman, "that nobody had wit
enough to see the advantage of a good tavern in Cedarville ten years
ago, or enterprise enough to start one. I give our friend Slade the
credit of being a shrewd, far-seeing man; and, mark my word for it, in
ten years from to-day he will be the richest man in the county."

"Nonsense--Ho! ho!" Simon Slade laughed outright. "The richest man! You
forget Judge Hammond."

"No, not even Judge Hammond, with all deference for our clever friend
Willy," and Judge Lyman smiled pleasantly on the young man.

"If he gets richer, somebody will be poorer!" The individual who
tittered these words had not spoken before, and I turned to look at him
more closely. A glance showed him to be one of a class seen in all
bar-rooms; a poor, broken-down inebriate, with the inward power of
resistance gone--conscious of having no man's respect, and giving
respect to none. There was a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, as he fixed
them on Slade, that gave added force to the peculiar tone in which his
brief but telling sentence was uttered. I noticed a slight contraction
on the landlord's ample forehead, the first evidence I had yet seen of
ruffled feelings. The remark, thrown in so untimely (or timely, some
will say), and with a kind of prophetic malice, produced a temporary
pause in the conversation. No one answered or questioned the intruder,
who, I could perceive, silently enjoyed the effect of his words. But
soon the obstructed current ran on again.

"If our excellent friend, Mr. Slade," said Harvey Green, "is not the
richest man in Cedarville at the end of ten years, he will at least
enjoy the satisfaction of having made his town richer."

"A true word that," replied Judge Lyman--"as true a word as ever was
spoken. What a dead-and-alive place this has been until within the last
few months. All vigorous growth had stopped, and we were actually going
to seed."

"And the graveyard, too," muttered the individual who had before
disturbed the self-satisfied harmony of the company, remarking upon the
closing sentence of Harvey Green. "Come, landlord," he added, as he
strode across to the bar, speaking in a changed, reckless sort of a
way, "fix me up a good hot whisky-punch, and do it right; and here's
another sixpence toward the fortune you are bound to make. It's the
last one left--not a copper more in my pockets," and he turned them
inside-out, with a half-solemn, half-ludicrous air. "I send it to keep
company in your till with four others that have found their way into
that snug place since morning, and which will be lonesome without their
little friend."

I looked at Simon Slade; his eyes rested on mine for a moment or two,
and then sunk beneath my earnest gaze. I saw that his countenance
flushed, and that his motions were slightly confused. The incident, it
was plain, did not awaken agreeable thoughts. Once I saw his hand move
toward the sixpence that lay upon the counter; but whether to push it
back or draw it toward the till, I could not determine. The
whisky-punch was in due time ready, and with it the man retired to a
table across the room, and sat down to enjoy the tempting beverage. As
he did so, the landlord quietly swept the poor unfortunate's last
sixpence into his drawer. The influence of this strong potation was to
render the man a little more talkative. To the free conversation
passing around him he lent an attentive ear, dropping in a word, now
and then, that always told upon the company like a well-directed blow.
At last, Slade lost all patience with him, and said, a little fretfully:

"Look here, Joe Morgan, if you will be ill-natured, pray go somewhere
else, and not interrupt good feeling among gentlemen."

"Got my last sixpence," retorted Joe, turning his pockets inside-out
again. "No more use for me here to-night. That's the way of the world.
How apt a scholar is our good friend Dustycoat, in this new school!
Well, he was a good miller--no one ever disputed that--and it's plain
to see that he is going to make a good landlord. I thought his heart
was a little too soft; but the indurating process has begun, and, in
less than ten years, if it isn't as hard as one of his old mill-stones,
Joe Morgan is no prophet. Oh, you needn't knit your brows so, friend
Simon, we're old friends; and friends are privileged to speak plain."

"I wish you'd go home. You're not yourself tonight," said the landlord,
a little coaxingly, for he saw that nothing was to be gained by
quarreling with Morgan. "Maybe my heart is growing harder," he added,
with affected good-humor; "and it is time, perhaps. One of my
weaknesses, I have heard even you say, was being too woman-hearted."

"No danger of that now," retorted Joe Morgan. "I've known a good many
landlords in my time, but can't remember one that was troubled with the
disease that once afflicted you."

Just at this moment the outer door was pushed open with a slow,
hesitating motion; then a little pale face peered in, and a pair of
soft blue eyes went searching about the room. Conversation was
instantly hushed, and every face, excited with interest, turned toward
the child, who had now stepped through the door. She was not over ten
years of age; but it moved the heart to look upon the saddened
expression of her young countenance, and the forced bravery therein,
that scarcely overcame the native timidity so touchingly visible.

"Father!" I have never heard this word spoken in a voice that sent such
a thrill along every nerve. It was full of sorrowful love--full of a
tender concern that had its origin too deep for the heart of a child.
As she spoke, the little one sprang across the room, and laying her
hands upon the arm of Joe Morgan, lifted her eyes, that were ready to
gush over with tears, to his face.

"Come father! won't you come home?" I hear that low, pleading voice
even now, and my heart gives a quicker throb. Poor child! Darkly
shadowed was the sky that bent gloomily over thy young life.

Morgan arose, and suffered the child to lead him from the room. He
seemed passive in her hands. I noticed that he thrust his fingers
nervously into his pocket, and that a troubled look went over his face
as they were withdrawn. His last sixpence was in the till of Simon
Slade!

The first man who spoke was Harvey Green, and this not for a minute
after the father and his child had vanished through the door.

"If I was in your place, landlord"--his voice was cold and
unfeeling--"I'd pitch that fellow out of the bar-room the next time he
stepped through the door. He's no business here, in the first place;
and, in the second, he doesn't know how to behave himself. There's no
telling how much a vagabond like him injures a respectable house."

"I wish he would stay away," said Simon, with a perplexed air.

"I'd make him stay away," answered Green.

"That may be easier said than done," remarked Judge Lyman. "Our friend
keeps a public-house, and can't just say who shall or shall not come
into it."

"But such a fellow has no business here. He's a good-for-nothing sot.
If I kept a tavern, I'd refuse to sell him liquor."

"That you might do," said Judge Lyman; "and I presume your hint will
not be lost on our friend Slade."

"He will have liquor, so long as he can get a cent to buy it with,"
remarked one of the company; "and I don't see why our landlord here,
who has gone to so much expense to fit up a tavern, shouldn't have the
sale of it as well as anybody else. Joe talks a little freely
sometimes; but no one can say that he is quarrelsome. You've got to
take him as he is, that's all."

"I am one," retorted Harvey Green, with a slightly ruffled manner, "who
is never disposed to take people as they are when they choose to render
themselves disagreeable. If I was Mr. Slade, as I remarked in the
beginning, I'd pitch that fellow into the road the next time he put his
foot over my door step."

"Not if I were present," remarked the other, coolly.

Green was on his feet in a moment, and I saw, from the flash of his
eyes, that he was a man of evil passions. Moving a pace or two in the
direction of the other, he said sharply.

"What is that, sir?"

The individual against whom his anger was so suddenly aroused was
dressed plainly, and had the appearance of a working man. He was stout
and muscular.

"I presume you heard my words. They were spoken distinctly," he
replied, not moving from where he sat, nor seeming to be in the least
disturbed. But there was a cool defiance in the tones of his voice and
in the steady look of his eyes.

"You're an impertinent fellow, and I'm half tempted to chastise you."

Green had scarcely finished the sentence, ere he was lying full length
upon the floor. The other had sprung upon him like a tiger, and with
one blow from his heavy fist, struck him down as if he had been a
child. For a moment or two, Green lay stunned and bewildered--then,
starting up with a savage cry, that sounded more bestial than human, he
drew a long knife from a concealed sheath, and attempted to stab his
assailant, but the murderous purpose was not accomplished, for the
other man, who had superior strength and coolness, saw the design, and
with a well directed blow almost broke the arm of Green, causing the
knife to leave his hand and glide far across the room.

"I'm half tempted to wring your neck off," exclaimed the man, whose
name was Lyon, now much excited, and seizing Green by the throat, he
strangled him until his face grew black. "Draw a knife on me, ha! You
murdering villain!" And he gripped him tighter.

Judge Lyman and the landlord now interfered, and rescued Green from the
hands of his fully aroused antagonist. For some time they stood
growling at each other, like two parted dogs struggling to get free, in
order to renew the conflict, but gradually cooled off. In a little
while Judge Lyman drew Green aside, and the two men left the bar-room
to other. In the door, as they were retiring, the former slightly
nodded to Willy Hammond, who soon followed them, going into the sitting
room, and from thence, as I could perceive, upstairs to an apartment
above.

"Not after much good," I heard Lyon mutter to himself. "If Judge
Hammond don't look a little closer after that boy of his, he'll be
sorry for it, that's all."

"Who is this Green?" I asked of Lyon, finding myself alone with him in
the bar-room soon after.

"A blackleg, I take it," was his unhesitating answer.

"Does Judge Lyman suspect his real character?"

"I don't know anything about that, but I wouldn't be afraid to bet ten
dollars, that if you could look in upon them now, you would find cards
in their hands."

"What a school, and what teachers for the youth who just went with
them!" I could not help remarking.

"Willy Hammond?"

"Yes."

"You may well say that. What can his father be thinking about to leave
him exposed to such influences!"

"He's one of the few who are in raptures about this tavern, because its
erection has slightly increased the value of his property about here,
but if he is not the loser of fifty per cent for every one gained,
before ten years go by, I'm very much in error."

"How so?"

"It will prove, I fear, the open door to ruin to his son."

"That's bad," said I.

"Bad! It is awful to think of. There is not a finer young man in the
country, nor one with better mind and heart, than Willy Hammond. So
much the sadder will be his destruction. Ah, sir! this tavern-keeping
is a curse to any place."

"But I thought, just now, that you spoke in favor of letting even the
poor drunkard's money go into the landlord's till, in order to
encourage his commendable enterprise in opening so good a tavern."

"We all speak with covert irony sometimes," answered the man, "as I did
then. Poor Joe Morgan! He is an old and early friend of Simon Slade.
They were boys together, and worked as millers under the same roof for
many years. In fact, Joe's father owned the mill, and the two learned
their trade with him. When old Morgan died, the mill came into Joe's
hands. It was in rather a worn-out condition, and Joe went in debt for
some pretty thorough repairs and additions of machinery. By and by,
Simon Slade, who was hired by Joe to run the mill, received a couple of
thousand dollars at the death of an aunt. This sum enabled him to buy a
share in the mill, which Morgan was very glad to sell in order to get
clear of his debt. Time passed on, and Joe left his milling interest
almost entirely in the care of Slade, who, it must be said in his
favor, did not neglect the business. But it somehow happened--I will
not say unfairly--that at the end of ten years, Joe Morgan no longer
owned a share in the mill. The whole property was in the hands of
Slade. People did not much wonder at this; for while Slade was always
to be found at the mill, industrious, active, and attentive to
customers, Morgan was rarely seen on the premises. You would oftener
find him in the woods, with a gun over his shoulder, or sitting by a
trout brook, or lounging at the tavern. And yet everybody liked Joe,
for he was companionable, quick-witted, and very kind-hearted. He would
say sharp things, sometimes, when people manifested little meannesses;
but there was so much honey in his gall, that bitterness rarely
predominated.

"A year or two before his ownership in the mill ceased, Morgan married
one of the sweetest girls in our town--Fanny Ellis, that was her name,
and she could have had her pick of the young men. Everybody affected to
wonder at her choice; and yet nobody really did wonder, for Joe was an
attractive young man, take him as you would, and just the one to win
the heart of a girl like Fanny. What if he had been seen, now and then,
a little the worse for drink! What if he showed more fondness for
pleasure than for business! Fanny did not look into the future with
doubt or fear. She believed that her love was strong enough to win him
from all evil allurements: and, as for this world's goods, they were
matters in which her maiden fancies rarely busied themselves.

"Well. Dark days came for her, poor soul! And yet, in all the darkness
of her earthly lot, she has never, it is said, been anything but a
loving, forbearing, self-denying wife to Morgan. And he--fallen as he
is, and powerless in the grasp of the monster intemperance--has never,
I am sure, hurt her with a cruel word. Had he added these, her heart
would, long ere this, have broken. Poor Joe Morgan! Poor Fanny! Oh,
what a curse is this drink!"

The man, warming with his theme, had spoken with an eloquence I had not
expected from his lips. Slightly overmastered by his feelings, he
paused for a moment or two, and then added:

"It was unfortunate for Joe, at least, that Slade sold his mill, and
became a tavern-keeper; for Joe had a sure berth, and wages regularly
paid. He didn't always stick to his work, but would go off on a spree
every now and then; but Slade bore with all this, and worked harder
himself to make up for his hand's shortcoming. And no matter what
deficiency the little store-room at home might show, Fanny Morgan never
found her meal barrel empty without knowing where to get it replenished.

"But, after Slade sold his mill, a sad change took place. The new owner
was little disposed to pay wages to a hand who would not give him all
his time during working hours; and in less than two weeks from the day
he took possession, Morgan was discharged. Since then, he has been
working about at one odd job and another, earning scarcely enough to
buy the liquor it requires to feed the inordinate thirst that is
consuming him. I am not disposed to blame Simon Slade for the
wrong-doing of Morgan; but here is a simple fact in the case--if he had
kept on at the useful calling of a miller, he would have saved this
man's family from want, suffering, and a lower deep of misery than that
into which they have already fallen. I merely state it, and you can
draw your own conclusions. It is one of the many facts, on the other
side of this tavern question, which it will do no harm to mention. I
have noted a good many facts besides, and one is, that before Slade
opened the 'Sickle and Sheaf,' he did all in his power to save his
early friend from the curse of intemperance; now he has become his
tempter. Heretofore, it was his hand that provided the means for his
family to live in some small degree of comfort; now he takes the poor
pittance the wretched man earns, and dropping it in his till, forgets
the wife and children at home who are hungry for the bread this money
should have purchased.

"Joe Morgan, fallen as he is, sir, is no fool. His mind sees quickly
yet; and he rarely utters a sentiment that is not full of meaning. When
he spoke of Blade's heart growing as hard in ten years as one of his
old mill-stones, he was not uttering words at random, nor merely
indulging in a harsh sentiment, little caring whether it were closely
applicable or not. That the indurating process had begun, he, alas! was
too sadly conscious."

The landlord had been absent from the room for some time. He left soon
after Judge Lyman, Harvey Green, and Willy Hammond withdrew, and I did
not see him again during the evening. His son Frank was left to attend
at the bar; no very hard task, for not more than half a dozen called in
to drink from the time Morgan left until the bar was closed.

While Mr. Lyon was giving me the brief history just recorded, I noticed
a little incident that caused a troubled feeling to pervade my mind.
After a man, for whom the landlord's son had prepared a fancy drink,
had nearly emptied his glass, he set it down upon the counter and went
out. A tablespoonful or two remained in the glass, and I noticed Frank,
after smelling at it two or three times, put the glass to his lips and
sip the sweetened liquor. The flavor proved agreeable; for, after
tasting it, he raised the glass again and drained every drop.

"Frank!" I heard a low voice, in a warning tone, pronounce the name,
and glancing toward a door partly open, that led from the inside of the
bar to the yard, I saw the face of Mrs. Slade. It had the same troubled
expression I had noticed before, but now blended with anxiety.

The boy went out at the call of his mother; and when a new customer
entered, I noticed that Flora, the daughter, came in to wait upon him.
I noticed, too, that while she poured out the liquor, there was a
heightened color on her face, in which I fancied that I saw a tinge of
shame. It is certain that she was not in the least gracious to the
person on whom she was waiting; and that there was little heart in her
manner of performing the task.

Ten o'clock found me alone and musing in the barroom over the
occurrences of the evening. Of all the incidents, that of the entrance
of Joe Morgan's child kept the most prominent place in my thoughts. The
picture of that mournful little face was ever before me; and I seemed
all the while to hear the word "Father," uttered so touchingly, and yet
with such a world of childish tenderness. And the man, who would have
opposed the most stubborn resistance to his fellow-men, had they sought
to force him from the room, going passively, almost meekly out, led by
that little child--I could not, for a time, turn my thoughts from the
image thereof! And then thought bore me to the wretched home, back to
which the gentle, loving child had taken her father, and my heart grew
faint in me as imagination busied itself with all the misery there.

And Willy Hammond. The little that I had heard and seen of him greatly
interested me in his favor. Ah! upon what dangerous ground was he
treading. How many pitfalls awaited his feet--how near they were to the
brink of a fearful precipice, down which to fall was certain
destruction. How beautiful had been his life-promise! How fair the
opening day of his existence! Alas! the clouds were gathering already,
and the low rumble of the distant thunder presaged the coming of a
fearful tempest. Was there none to warn him of the danger? Alas! all
might now come too late, for so few who enter the path in which his
steps were treading will hearken to friendly counsel, or heed the
solemn warning. Where was he now? This question recurred over and over
again. He had left the bar-room with Judge Lyman and Green early in the
evening, and had not made his appearance since. Who and what was Green?
And Judge Lyman, was he a man of principle? One with whom it was safe
to trust a youth like Willy Hammond?

While I mused thus, the bar-room door opened, and a man past the prime
of life, with a somewhat florid face, which gave a strong relief to the
gray, almost white hair that, suffered to grow freely, was pushed back,
and lay in heavy masses on his coat collar, entered with a hasty step.
He was almost venerable in appearance; yet there was in his dark, quick
eyes the brightness of unquenched loves, the fires of which were
kindled at the altars of selfishness and sensuality. This I saw at a
glance. There was a look of concern on his face, as he threw his eyes
around the bar-room; and he seemed disappointed, I thought, at finding
it empty.

"Is Simon Slade here?"

As I answered in the negative, Mrs. Slade entered through the door that
opened from the yard, and stood behind the counter.

"Ah, Mrs. Slade! Good evening, madam!" he said.

"Good evening, Judge Hammond."

"Is your husband at home?"

"I believe he is," answered Mrs. Slade. "I think he is somewhere about
the house."

"Ask him to step here, will you?"

Mrs. Slade went out. Nearly five minutes went by, during which time
Judge Hammond paced the floor of the bar-room uneasily. Then the
landlord made his appearance. The free, open, manly, self-satisfied
expression of his countenance, which I had remarked on alighting from
the stage in the afternoon, was gone. I noticed at once the change, for
it was striking. He did not look steadily into the face of Judge
Hammond, who asked him, in a low voice, if his son had been there
during the evening.

"He was here," said Slade.

"When?"

"He came in some time after dark and stayed, maybe, an hour."

"And hasn't been here since?"

"It's nearly two hours since he left the bar-room," replied the
landlord.

Judge Hammond seemed perplexed. There was a degree of evasion in
Slade's manner that he could hardly help noticing. To me it was all
apparent, for I had lively suspicions that made my observation acute.

Judge Hammond crossed his arms behind him, and took three or four
strides about the floor.

"Was Judge Lyman here to-night?" he then asked.

"He was," answered Slade.

"Did he and Willy go out together?"

The question seemed an unexpected one for the landlord. Slade appeared
slightly confused, and did not answer promptly.

"I--I rather think they did," he said, after a brief hesitation.

"Ah, well! Perhaps he is at Judge Lyman's. I will call over there."

And Judge Hammond left the bar-room.

"Would you like to retire, sir?" said the landlord, now turning to me,
with a forced smile--I saw that it was forced.

"If you please," I answered.

He lit a candle and conducted me to my room, where, overwearied with
the day's exertion, I soon fell asleep, and did not awake until the sun
was shining brightly into my windows.

I remained at the village a portion of the day, but saw nothing of the
parties in whom the incidents of the previous evening had awakened a
lively interest. At four o'clock I left in the stage, and did not visit
Cedarville again for a year.

NIGHT THE SECOND.

THE CHANGES OF A YEAR.

A cordial grasp of the hand and a few words of hearty welcome greeted
me as I alighted from the stage at the "Sickle and Sheaf," on my next
visit to Cedarville. At the first glance, I saw no change in the
countenance, manner, or general bearing of Simon Slade, the landlord.
With him, the year seemed to have passed like a pleasant summer day.
His face was round, and full, and rosy, and his eyes sparkled with that
good humor which flows from intense self-satisfaction. Everything about
him seemed to say--"All 'right with myself and the world."

I had scarcely expected this. From what I saw during my last brief
sojourn at the "Sickle and Sheaf," the inference was natural, that
elements had been called into activity, which must produce changes
adverse to those pleasant states of mind that threw an almost perpetual
sunshine over the landlord's countenance. How many hundreds of times
had I thought of Tom Morgan and Willy Hammond--of Frank, and the
temptations to which a bar-room exposed him. The heart of Slade must,
indeed, be as hard as one of his old mill-stones, if he could remain an
unmoved witness of the corruption and degradation of these.

"My fears have outrun the actual progress of things," said I to myself,
with a sense of relief, as I mused alone in the still neatly arranged
sitting-room, after the landlord, who sat and chatted for a few
minutes, had left me. "There is, I am willing to believe, a basis of
good in this man's character, which has led him to remove, as far as
possible, the more palpable evils that ever attach themselves to a
house of public entertainment. He had but entered on the business last
year. There was much to be learned, pondered, and corrected.
Experience, I doubt not, has led to many important changes in the
manner of conducting the establishment, and especially in what pertains
to the bar."

As I thought thus, my eyes glanced through the half-open door, and
rested on the face of Simon Slade. He was standing behind his
bar--evidently alone in the room--with his head bent in a musing
attitude. At first I was in some doubt as to the identity of the
singularly changed countenance. Two deep perpendicular seams lay
sharply defined on his forehead--the arch of his eyebrows was gone, and
from each corner of his compressed lips, lines were seen reaching
half-way to the chin. Blending with a slightly troubled expression, was
a strongly marked selfishness, evidently brooding over the consummation
of its purpose. For some moments I sat gazing on his face, half
doubting at times if it were really that of Simon Slade. Suddenly a
gleam flashed over it--an ejaculation was uttered, and one clenched
hand brought down, with a sharp stroke, into the open palm of the
other. The landlord's mind had reached a conclusion, and was resolved
upon action. There were no warm rays in the gleam of light that
irradiated his countenance--at least none for my heart, which felt
under them an almost icy coldness.

"Just the man I was thinking about." I heard the landlord say, as some
one entered the bar, while his whole manner underwent a sudden change.

"The old saying is true," was answered in a voice, the tones of which
were familiar to my ears.

"Thinking of the old Harry?" said Slade.

"Yes."

"True, literally, in the present case," I heard the landlord remark,
though in a much lower tone; "for, if you are not the devil himself,
you can't be farther removed than a second cousin."

A low, gurgling laugh met this little sally. There was something in it
so unlike a human laugh, that it caused my blood to trickle, for a
moment, coldly along my veins.

I heard nothing more except the murmur of voices in the bar, for a hand
shut the partly opened door that led from the sitting room.

Whose was that voice? I recalled its tones, and tried to fix in my
thought the person to whom it belonged, but was unable to do so. I was
not very long in doubt, for on stepping out on the porch in front of
the tavern, the well remembered face of Harvey Green presented itself.
He stood in the bar-room door, and was talking earnestly to Slade,
whose back was toward me. I saw that he recognized me, although I had
not passed a word with him on the occasion of my former visit, and
there was a lighting up of his countenance as if about to speak--but I
withdrew my eyes from his face to avoid the unwelcome greeting. When I
looked at him again, I saw that he was regarding me with a sinister
glance, which was instantly withdrawn. In what broad, black characters
was the word TEMPTER written on his face! How was it possible for
anyone to look thereon, and not read the warning inscription!

Soon after, he withdrew into the bar-room and the landlord came and
took a seat near me on the porch.

"How is the 'Sickle and Sheaf' coming on?" I inquired.

"First rate," was the answer--"First rate."

"As well as you expected?"

"Better."

"Satisfied with your experiment?"

"Perfectly. Couldn't get me back to the rumbling old mill again, if you
were to make me a present of it."

"What of the mill?" I asked. "How does the new owner come on?"

"About as I thought it would be."

"Not doing very well?"

"How could it be expected when he didn't know enough of the milling
business to grind a bushel of wheat right? He lost half of the custom I
transferred to him in less than three months. Then he broke his main
shaft, and it took over three weeks to get in a new one. Half of his
remaining customers discovered by this time, that they could get far
better meal from their grain at Harwood's mill near Lynwood, and so did
not care to trouble him any more. The upshot of the whole matter is, he
broke down next, and had to sell the mill at a heavy loss."

"Who has it now?"

"Judge Hammond is the purchaser."

"He is going to rent it, I suppose?"

"No; I believe he means to turn it into some kind of a factory--and, I
rather think, will connect therewith a distillery. This is a fine
grain-growing country, as you know. If he does set up a distillery
he'll make a fine thing of it. Grain has been too low in this section
for some years; this all the farmers have felt, and they are very much
pleased at the idea. It will help them wonderfully. I always thought my
mill a great thing for the farmers; but what I did for them was a mere
song compared to the advantage of an extensive distillery."

"Judge Hammond is one of your richest men?"

"Yes--the richest in the county. And what is more, he's a shrewd,
far-seeing man, and knows how to multiply his riches."

"How is his son Willy coming on?"

"Oh! first-rate."

The landlord's eyes fell under the searching look I bent upon him.

"How old is he now?"

"Just twenty."

"A critical age," I remarked.

"So people say; but I didn't find it so," answered Slade, a little
distantly.

"The impulses within and the temptations without, are the measure of
its dangers. At his age, you were, no doubt, daily employed at hard
work."

"I was, and no mistake."

"Thousands and hundreds of thousands are indebted to useful work,
occupying many hours through each day, and leaving them with wearied
bodies at night, for their safe passage from yielding youth to firm,
resisting manhood. It might not be with you as it is now, had leisure
and freedom to go in and out when you pleased been offered at the age
of nineteen."

"I can't tell as to that," said the landlord, shrugging his shoulders.
"But I don't see that Willy Hammond is in any especial danger. He is a
young man with many admirable qualities--is social-liberal--generous
almost to a fault--but has good common sense, and wit enough, I take
it, to keep out of harm's way."

A man passing the house at the moment, gave Simon Slade an opportunity
to break off a conversation that was not, I could see, altogether
agreeable. As he left me, I arose and stepped into the bar-room. Frank,
the landlord's son, was behind the bar. He had grown considerably in
the year--and from a rather delicate, innocent-looking boy, to a stout,
bold lad. His face was rounder, and had a gross, sensual expression,
that showed itself particularly about the mouth. The man Green was
standing beside the bar talking to him, and I noticed that Frank
laughed heartily, at some low, half obscene remarks that he was making.
In the midst of these, Flora, the sister of Frank, a really beautiful
girl, came in to get something from the bar. Green spoke to her
familiarly, and Flora answered him with a perceptibly heightening color.

I glanced toward Frank, half expecting to see an indignant flush on his
young face. But no--he looked on with a smile! "Ah!" thought I, "have
the boy's pure impulses so soon died out in this fatal atmosphere? Can
he bear to see those evil eyes--he knows they are evil--rest upon the
face of his sister? or to hear those lips, only a moment since polluted
with vile words, address her with the familiarity of a friend?"

"Fine girl, that sister of yours, Frank! Fine girl!" said Green, after
Flora had withdrawn--speaking of her with about as much respect in his
voice as if he were praising a fleet racer or a favorite hound.

The boy smiled, with a pleased air.

"I must try and find her a good husband, Frank. I wonder if she
wouldn't have me?"

"You'd better ask her," said the boy, laughing.

"I would if I thought there was any chance for me."

"Nothing like trying. Faint heart never won fair lady," returned Frank,
more with the air of a man than a boy. How fast he was growing old!

"A banter, by George!" exclaimed Green, slapping his hands together.
"You're a great boy, Frank! a great boy! I shall have to talk to your
father about you. Coming on too fast. Have to be put back in your
lessons--hey!"

And Green winked at the boy, and shook his finger at him. Frank laughed
in a pleased way, as he replied: "I guess I'll do."

"I guess you will," said Green, as, satisfied with his colloquy, he
turned off and left the bar-room.

"Have something to drink, sir?" inquired Frank, addressing me in a
bold, free way.

I shook my head.

"Here's a newspaper," he added.

I took the paper and sat down--not to read, but to observe. Two or
three men soon came in, and spoke in a very familiar way to Frank, who
was presently busy setting out the liquors they had called for. Their
conversation, interlarded with much that was profane and vulgar, was of
horses, horse-racing, gunning, and the like, to all of which the young
bar-tender lent an attentive ear, putting in a word now and then, and
showing an intelligence in such matters quite beyond his age. In the
midst thereof, Mr. Slade made his appearance. His presence caused a
marked change in Frank, who retired from his place among the men, a
step or two outside of the bar, and did not make a remark while his
father remained. It was plain from this, that Mr. Slade was not only
aware of Frank's dangerous precocity, but had already marked his
forwardness by rebuke.

So far, all that I had seen and heard impressed me unfavorably,
notwithstanding the declaration of Simon Slade, that everything about
the "Sickle and Sheaf" was coming on "first-rate," and that he was
"perfectly satisfied" with his experiment. Why, even if the man had
gained, in money, fifty thousand dollars by tavern-keeping in a year,
he had lost a jewel in the innocence of his boy that was beyond all
valuation. "Perfectly satisfied?" Impossible! He was not perfectly
satisfied. How could he be? The look thrown upon Frank when he entered
the bar-room, and saw him "hale fellow, well met," with three or four
idle, profane, drinking customers, contradicted that assertion.

After supper, I took a seat in the bar-room, to see how life moved on
in that place of rendezvous for the surface-population of Cedarville.
Interest enough in the characters I had met there a year before
remained for me to choose this way of spending the time, instead of
visiting at the house of a gentleman who had kindly invited me to pass
an evening with his family.

The bar-room custom, I soon found, had largely increased in a year. It
now required, for a good part of the time, the active services of both
the landlord and his son to meet the calls for liquor. What pained me
most, was to see the large number of lads and young men who came in to
lounge and drink; and there was scarcely one of them whose face did not
show marks of sensuality, or whose language was not marred by
obscenity, profanity, or vulgar slang. The subjects of conversation
were varied enough, though politics was the most prominent. In regard
to politics I heard nothing in the least instructive; but only abuse of
individuals and dogmatism on public measures. They were all exceedingly
confident in assertion; but I listened in vain for exposition, or even
for demonstrative facts. He who asseverated in the most positive
manner, and swore the hardest, carried the day in the petty contests.

I noticed, early in the evening, and at a time when all the inmates of
the room were in the best possible humor with themselves, the entrance
of an elderly man, on whose face I instantly read a deep concern. It
was one of those mild, yet strongly marked faces, that strike you at a
glance. The forehead was broad, the eyes large and far back in their
sockets, the lips full but firm. You saw evidences of a strong, but
well-balanced character. As he came in, I noticed a look of
intelligence pass from one to another; and then the eyes of two or
three were fixed upon a young man who was seated not far from me, with
his back to the entrance, playing at dominoes. He had a glass of ale by
his side. The old man searched about the room for some moments, before
his glance rested upon the individual I have mentioned. My eyes were
full upon his face, as he advanced toward him, as yet unseen. Upon it
was not a sign of angry excitement, but a most touching sorrow.

"Edward!" he said, as he laid his hand gently on the young man's
shoulder. The latter started at the voice, and crimsoned deeply. A few
moments he sat irresolute.

"Edward, my son!" It would have been a cold, hard heart indeed that
softened not under the melting tenderness of these tones. The call was
irresistible, and obedience a necessity. The powers of evil had, yet,
too feeble a grasp on the young man's heart to hold him in thrall.
Rising with a half-reluctant manner, and with a shamefacedness that it
was impossible to conceal, he retired as quietly as possible. The
notice of only a few in the bar-room was attracted by the incident.

"I can tell you what," I heard the individual, with whom the young man
had been playing at dominoes, remark--himself not twenty years of
age--"if my old man were to make a fool of himself in this
way--sneaking around after me in bar-rooms-he'd get only his trouble
for his pains. I'd like to see him try it, though! There'd be a nice
time of it, I guess. Wouldn't I creep off with him, as meek as a lamb!
Ho! ho!"

"Who is that old gentleman who came in just now?" I inquired of the
person who thus commented on the incident which had just occurred.

"Mr. Hargrove is his name."

"And that was his son?"

"Yes; and I'm only sorry he doesn't possess a little more spirit."

"How old is he?"

"About twenty."

"Not of legal age, then?"

"He's old enough to be his own master."

"The law says differently," I suggested.

In answer, the young man cursed the law, snapping his fingers in its
imaginary face as he did so.

"At least you will admit," said I, "that Edward Hargrove, in the use of
a liberty to go where he pleases, and do what he pleases, exhibits but
small discretion."

"I will admit no such thing. What harm is there, I would like to know,
in a social little game such as we were playing? There were no
stakes--we were not gambling."

I pointed to the half-emptied glass of ale left by young Hargrove.

"Oh! oh!" half sneered, half laughed a man, twice the age of the one I
had addressed, who sat near by, listening to our conversation. I looked
at him for a moment, and then said:

"The great danger lies there, without doubt. If it were only a glass of
ale and a game of dominoes--but it doesn't stop there, and well the
young man's father knows it."

"Perhaps he does," was answered. "I remember him in his younger days;
and a pretty high boy he was. He didn't stop at a glass of ale and a
game of dominoes; not he! I've seen him as drunk as a lord many a time;
and many a time at a horse-race, or cock-fight, betting with the
bravest. I was only a boy, though a pretty old boy; but I can tell you,
Hargrove was no saint."

"I wonder not, then, that he is so anxious for his son," was my remark.
"He knows well the lurking dangers in the path he seems inclined to
enter."

"I don't see that they have done him much harm. He sowed his wild
oats--then got married, and settled down into a good, substantial
citizen. A little too religious and pharisaical, I always thought; but
upright in his dealings. He had his pleasures in early life, as was
befitting the season of youth--why not let his son taste of the same
agreeable fruit? He's wrong, sir--wrong! And I've said as much to Ned.
I only wish the boy had shown the right spunk this evening, and told
the old man to go home about his business."

"So do I," chimed in the young disciple in this bad school. "It's what
I'd say to my old man, in double quick time, if he was to come hunting
after me."

"He knows better than to do that," said the other, in a way that let me
deeper into the young man's character.

"Indeed he does. He's tried his hand on me once or twice during the
last year, but found it wouldn't do, no how; Tom Peters is out of his
leading-strings."

"And can drink his glass with any one, and not be a grain the worse for
it."

"Exactly, old boy!" said Peters, slapping his preceptor on the knee.
"Exactly! I'm not one of your weak-headed ones. Oh no!"

"Look here, Joe Morgan!"--the half-angry voice of Simon Slade now rung
through the bar-room,--"just take yourself off home!"

I had not observed the entrance of this person. He was standing at the
bar, with an emptied glass in his hand. A year had made no improvement
in his appearance. On the contrary, his clothes were more worn and
tattered; his countenance more sadly marred. What he had said to
irritate the landlord, I know not; but Slade's face was fiery with
passion, and his eyes glared threateningly at the poor besotted one,
who showed not the least inclination to obey.

"Off with you, I say! And never show your face here again. I won't have
such low vagabonds as you are about my house. If you can't keep decent
and stay decent, don't intrude yourself here."

"A rum-seller talk of decency!" retorted Morgan. "Pah! You were a
decent man once, and a good miller into the bargain. But that time's
past and gone. Decency died out when you exchanged the pick and
facing-hammer for the glass and muddler. Decency! Pah! How you talk! As
if it were any more decent to sell rum than to drink it."

There was so much of biting contempt in the tones, as well as the words
of the half-intoxicated man, that Slade, who had himself been drinking
rather more freely than usual, was angered beyond self-control.
Catching up an empty glass from the counter, he hurled it with all his
strength at the head of Joe Morgan. The missive just grazed one of his
temples, and flew by on its dangerous course. The quick sharp cry of a
child startled the air, followed by exclamations of alarm and horror
from many voices.

"It's Joe Morgan's child!" "He's killed her!" "Good heavens!" Such were
the exclamations that rang through the room. I was among the first to
reach the spot where a little girl, just gliding in through the door,
had been struck on the forehead by the glass, which had cut a deep
gash, and stunned her into insensibility. The blood flowed instantly
from the wound, and covered her face, which presented a shocking
appearance. As I lifted her from the floor, upon which she had fallen,
Morgan, into whose very soul the piercing cry of his child had
penetrated, stood by my side, and grappled his arms around her
insensible form, uttering as he did so heart-touching moans and
lamentations.

"What's the matter? Oh, what's the matter?" It was a woman's voice,
speaking in frightened tones.

"It's nothing! Just go out, will you, Ann?" I heard the landlord say.

But his wife--it was Mrs. Slade--having heard the shrieks of pain and
terror uttered by Morgan's child, had come running into the
bar-room--heeded not his words, but pressed forward into the little
group that stood around the bleeding girl.

"Run for Doctor Green, Frank," she cried in an imperative voice, the
moment her eyes rested on the little one's bloody face.

Frank came around from behind the bar, in obedience to the word; but
his father gave a partial countermand, and he stood still. Upon
observing which, his mother repeated the order, even more emphatically.

"Why don't you jump, you young rascal!" exclaimed Harvey Green. "The
child may be dead before the doctor can get here."

Frank hesitated no longer, but disappeared instantly through the door.

"Poor, poor child!" almost sobbed Mrs. Slade, as she lifted the
insensible form from my arms. "How did it happen? Who struck her?"

"Who? Curse him! Who but Simon Slade?" answered Joe Morgan, through his
clenched teeth.

The look of anguish, mingled with bitter reproach, instantly thrown
upon the landlord by his wife, can hardly be forgotten by any who saw
it that night.

"Oh, Simon! Simon! And has it come to this already?" What a world of
bitter memories, and sad forebodings of evil, did that little sentence
express. "To this already"--Ah! In the downward way, how rapidly the
steps do tread--how fast the progress!

"Bring me a basin of water, and a towel, quickly!" she now exclaimed.

The water was brought, and in a little while the face of the child lay
pure and as white as snow against her bosom. The wound from which the
blood had flowed so freely was found on the upper part of the forehead,
a little to the side, and extending several inches back, along the top
of the head. As soon as the blood stains were wiped away, and the
effusion partially stopped, Mrs. Slade carried the still insensible
body into the next room, whither the distressed, and now completely
sobered father, accompanied her. I went with them, but Slade remained
behind.

The arrival of the doctor was soon followed by the restoration of life
to the inanimate body. He happened to be at home, and came instantly.
He had just taken the last stitch in the wound, which required to be
drawn together, and was applying strips of adhesive plaster, when the
hurried entrance of some one caused me to look up. What an apparition
met my eyes! A woman stood in the door, with a face in which maternal
anxiety and terror blended fearfully. Her countenance was like
ashes--her eyes straining wildly--her lips apart, while the panting
breath almost hissed through them.

"Joe! Joe! What is it? Where is Mary? Is she dead?" were her eager
inquiries.

"No, Fanny," answered Joe Morgan, starting up from where he was
actually kneeling by the side of the reviving little one, and going
quickly to his wife. "She's better now. It's a bad hurt, but the doctor
says it's nothing dangerous. Poor, dear child!"

The pale face of the mother grew paler--she gasped--caught for breath
two or three times--a low shudder ran through her frame--and then she
lay white and pulseless in the arms of her husband. As the doctor
applied restoratives, I had opportunity to note more particularly the
appearance of Mrs. Morgan. Her person was very slender, and her face so
attenuated that it might almost be called shadowy. Her hair, which was
a rich chestnut brown, with a slight golden lustre, had fallen from her
comb, and now lay all over her neck and bosom in beautiful luxuriance.
Back from her full temples it had been smoothed away by the hand of
Morgan, that all the while moved over her brow and temples with a
caressing motion that I saw was unconscious, and which revealed the
tenderness of feeling with which, debased as he was, he regarded the
wife of his youth, and the long suffering companion of his later and
evil days. Her dress was plain and coarse, but clean and well fitting;
and about her whole person was an air of neatness and taste. She could
not now be called beautiful; yet in her marred features--marred by
suffering and grief--were many lineaments of beauty; and much that told
of a true, pure woman's heart beating in her bosom. Life came slowly
back to the stilled heart, and it was nearly half an hour before the
circle of motion was fully restored.

Then, the twain, with their child, tenderly borne in the arms of her
father, went sadly homeward, leaving more than one heart heavier for
their visit.

I saw more of the landlord's wife on this occasion than before. She had
acted with a promptness and humanity that impressed me very favorably.
It was plain, from her exclamations on learning that her husband's hand
inflicted the blow that came so near destroying the child's life, that
her faith for good in the tavern-keeping experiment had never been
strong. I had already inferred as much. Her face, the few times I had
seen her, wore a troubled look; and I could never forget its
expression, nor her anxious, warning voice, when she discovered Frank
sipping the dregs from a glass in the bar-room.

It is rarely, I believe, that wives consent freely to the opening of
taverns by their husbands; and the determination on the part of the
latter to do so, is not unfrequently attended with a breach of
confidence and good feeling never afterward fully healed. Men look
close to the money result; women to the moral consequences. I doubt if
there be one dram-seller in ten, between whom and his wife there exists
a good understanding--to say nothing of genuine affection. And, in the
exceptional cases, it will generally be found that the wife is as
mercenary, or careless of the public good, as her husband. I have known
some women to set up grog-shops; but they were women of bad principles
and worse hearts. I remember one case, where a woman, with a sober,
church-going husband, opened a dram-shop. The husband opposed,
remonstrated, begged, threatened--but all to no purpose. The wife, by
working for the clothing stores, had earned and saved about three
hundred dollars. The love of money, in the slow process of
accumulation, had been awakened; and, in ministering to the depraved
appetites of men who loved drink and neglected their families, she saw
a quicker mode of acquiring the gold she coveted. And so the dram-shop
was opened. And what was the result? The husband quit going to church.
He had no heart for that; for, even on the Sabbath day, the fiery
stream was stayed not in his house. Next he began to tipple. Soon,
alas! the subtle poison so pervaded his system that morbid desire came;
and then he moved along quick-footed in the way of ruin. In less than
three years, I think, from the time the grog-shop was opened by his
wife, he was in a drunkard's grave. A year or two more, and the pit
that was digged for others by the hands of the wife, she fell into
herself. After breathing an atmosphere poisoned by the fumes of liquor,
the love of tasting it was gradually formed, and she, too, in the end,
became a slave to the Demon Drink. She died at last, poor as a beggar
in the street. Ah! this liquor-selling is the way to ruin; and they who
open the gates, as well as those who enter the downward path, alike go
to destruction. But this is digressing.

After Joe Morgan and his wife left the "Sickle and Sheaf," with that
gentle child, who, as I afterward learned, had not, for a year or more,
laid her little head to sleep until her father returned home and who,
if he stayed out beyond a certain hour, would go for him, and lead him
back, a very angel of love and patience--I re-entered the bar-room, to
see how life was passing there. Not one of all I had left in the room
remained. The incident which had occurred was of so painful a nature,
that no further unalloyed pleasure was to be had there during the
evening, and so each had retired. In his little kingdom the landlord
sat alone, his head resting on his hand, and his face shaded from the
light. The whole aspect of the man was that of one in self-humiliation.
As I entered he raised his head, and turned his face toward me. Its
expression was painful.

"Rather an unfortunate affair," said he. "I'm angry with myself, and
sorry for the poor child. But she'd no business here. As for Joe
Morgan, it would take a saint to bear his tongue when once set a-going
by liquor. I wish he'd stay away from the house. Nobody wants his
company. Oh, dear!"

The ejaculation, or rather groan, that closed the sentence showed how
little Slade was satisfied with himself, notwithstanding this feeble
attempt at self-justification.

"His thirst for liquor draws him hither," I remarked. "The attraction
of your bar to his appetite is like that of the magnet to the needle.
He cannot stay away."

"He MUST stay away!" exclaimed the landlord, with some vehemence of
tone, striking his fist upon the table by which he sat. "He MUST stay
away! There is scarcely an evening that he does not ruffle my temper,
and mar good feelings in all the company. Just see what he provoked me
to do this evening. I might have killed the child. It makes my blood
run cold to think of it! Yes, sir--he must stay away. If no better can
be done, I'll hire a man to stand at the door and keep him out."

"He never troubled you at the mill," said I. "No man was required at
the mill door?"

"No!" And the landlord gave emphasis to the word by an oath, ejaculated
with a heartiness that almost startled me. I had not heard him swear
before. "No; the great trouble was to get him and keep him there, the
good-for-nothing, idle fellow!"

"I am afraid," I ventured to suggest, "that things don't go on quite so
smoothly here as they did at the mill. Your customers are of a
different class."

"I don't know about that; why not?" He did not just relish my remark.

"Between quiet, thrifty, substantial farmers, and drinking bar-room
loungers, are many degrees of comparison."

"Excuse me, sir!" Simon Slade elevated his person. "The men who visit
my bar-room, as a general thing, are quite as respectable, moral, and
substantial as any who came to the mill--and I believe more so. The
first people in the place, sir, are to be found here. Judge Lyman and
Judge Hammond; Lawyer Wilks and Doctor Maynard; Mr. Grand and Mr. Lee;
and dozens of others--all our first people. No, sir; you mustn't judge
all by vagabonds like Joe Morgan."

There was a testy spirit manifested that I did not care to provoke. I
could have met his assertion with facts and inferences of a character
to startle any one occupying his position, who was in a calm,
reflective state; but to argue with him then would have been worse than
idle; and so I let him talk on until the excitement occasioned by my
words died out for want of new fuel.

NIGHT THE THIRD.

JOE MORGAN'S CHILD.

"I don't see anything of your very particular friend, Joe Morgan, this
evening," said Harvey Green, leaning on the bar and speaking to Slade.
It was the night succeeding that on which the painful and exciting
scene with the child had occurred.

"No," was answered--and to the word was added a profane imprecation.
"No; and if he'll just keep away from here, he may go to--on a
hard-trotting horse and a porcupine saddle as fast as he pleases. He's
tried my patience beyond endurance, and my mind is made up that he gets
no more drams at this bar. I've borne his vile tongue and seen my
company annoyed by him just as long as I mean to stand it. Last night
decided me. Suppose I'd killed that child?"

"You'd have had trouble then, and no mistake."

"Wouldn't I? Blast her little picture! What business has she creeping
in here every night?"

"She must have a nice kind of a mother," remarked Green, with a cold
sneer.

"I don't know what she is now," said Slade, a slight touch of feeling
in his voice--"heart-broken, I suppose. I couldn't look at her last
night; it made me sick. But there was a time when Fanny Morgan was the
loveliest and best woman in Cedarville. I'll say that for her. Oh,
dear! What a life her miserable husband has caused her to lead."

"Better that he were dead and out of the way."

"Better a thousand times," answered Slade. "If he'd only fall down some
night and break his neck, it would be a blessing to his family."

"And to you in particular," laughed Green.

"You may be sure it wouldn't cost me a large sum for mourning," was the
unfeeling response.

Let us leave the bar-room of the "Sickle and Sheaf," and its
cold-hearted inmates, and look in upon the family of Joe Morgan, and
see how it is in the home of the poor inebriate. We will pass by a
quick transition.

"Joe!" The thin white hand of Mrs. Morgan clasps the arm of her
husband, who has arisen up suddenly, and now stands by the partly
opened door. "Don't go out to-night, Joe. Please, don't go out."

"Father!" A feeble voice calls from the corner of an old settee, where
little Mary lies with her head bandaged.

"Well, I won't then!" is replied--not angrily, nor even fretfully--but
in a kind voice.

"Come and sit by me, father." How tenderly, yet how full of concern is
that low, sweet voice. "Come, won't you?"

"Yes, dear."

"Now hold my hand, father."

Joe takes the hand of little Mary, that instantly tightens upon his.

"You won't go away and leave me to-night, will you, father? Say you
won't."

"How very hot your hand is, dear. Does your head ache?"

"A little; but it will soon feel better."

Up into the swollen and disfigured face of the fallen father, the
large, earnest blue eyes of the child are raised. She does not see the
marred lineaments; but only the beloved countenance of her parent.

"Dear father!"

"What, love?"

"I wish you'd promise me something."

"What, dear?"

"Will you promise?"

"I can't say until I hear your request. If I can promise, I will."

"Oh, you can promise--you can, father!"

How the large blue eyes dance and sparkle!

"What is it, love?"

"That you will never go into Simon Slade's bar any more."

The child raises herself, evidently with a painful effort; and leans
nearer to her father.

Joe shakes his head, and poor Mary drops back upon her pillow with a
sigh. Her lids fall, and the long lashes lie strongly relieved on her
colorless cheeks.

"I won't go there to-night, dear. So let your heart be at rest."

Mary's lids unclose, and two round drops, released from their clasp,
glide slowly over her face.

"Thank you, father--thank you. Mother will be so glad."

The eyes closed again; and the father moved uneasily. His heart is
touched. There is a struggle within him. It is on his lips to say that
he will never drink at the "Sickle and Sheaf" again; but resolution
just lacks the force of utterance.

"Father!"

"Well, dear?"

"I don't, think I'll be well enough to go out in two or three days. You
know the doctor said that I would have to keep very still, for I had a
great deal of fever."

"Yes, poor child."

"Now, won't you promise me one thing?"

"What is it, dear?"

"Not to go out in the evening until I get well."

Joe Morgan hesitated.

"Just promise me that, father. It won't be long; I shall be up again in
a little while."

How well the father knows what is in the heart of his child. Her fears
are all for him. Who is to go up after her poor father, and lead him
home when the darkness of inebriety is on his spirit, and external
perception so dulled that not skill enough remains to shun the harm
that lies in his path?

"Do promise just that, father, dear."

He cannot resist the pleading voice and look. "I promise it, Mary; so
shut your eyes now and go to sleep. I'm afraid this fever will
increase."

"Oh! I'm so glad--so glad!"

Mary does not clasp her hands, nor show strong external signs of
pleasure; but how full of a pure, unselfish joy is that low-murmured
ejaculation, spoken in the depths of her spirit, as well as syllabled
by her tongue!

Mrs. Morgan has been no unconcerned witness of all this; but knowing
the child's influence over her father, she has not ventured a word.
More was to be gained, she was sure, by silence on her part; and so she
kept silent. Now she comes nearer to them, and says, as she lets a hand
rest on the shoulder of her husband:

"You feel better for that promise already; I know you do."

He looks up to her, and smiles faintly. He does feel better, but is
hardly willing to acknowledge it.

Soon after Mary is sleeping. It does not escape the observation of Mrs.
Morgan that her husband grows restless; for he gets up suddenly, every
now and then, and walks quickly across the room, as if in search of
something. Then sits down, listlessly--sighs--stretches himself, and
says, "Oh dear!" What shall she do for him? How is the want of his
accustomed evening stimulus to be met? She thinks, and questions, and
grieves inwardly. Poor Joe Morgan! His wife understands his case, and
pities him from her heart. But what can she do? Go out and get him
something to drink? "Oh, no! no! no! never!" She answered the thought
audibly almost, in the excitement of her feelings. An hour has
passed--Joe's restlessness has increased instead of diminishing. What
is to be done? Now Mrs. Morgan has left the room. She has resolved upon
something, for the case must be met. Ah! here she comes, after an
absence of five minutes, bearing in her hand a cup of strong coffee.

"It was kind and thoughtful in you, Fanny," says Morgan, as with a
gratified look he takes the cup. But his hand trembles, and he spills a
portion of the contents as ho tries to raise it to his lips. How
dreadfully his nerves are shattered! Unnatural stimulants have been
applied so long, that all true vitality seems lost. And now the hand of
his wife is holding the cup to his lips, and he drinks eagerly.

"This is dreadful--dreadful! Where will it end? What is to be done?"

Fanny suppresses a sob, as she thus gives vent to her troubled
feelings. Twice, already, has her husband been seized with the
drunkard's madness; and, in the nervous prostration consequent upon
even a brief withdrawal of his usual strong stimulants, she sees the
fearful precursor of another attack of this dreadful and dangerous
malady. In the hope of supplying the needed tone she has given him
strong coffee; and this for the time, produces the effect desired. The
restlessness is allayed, and a quiet state of body and mind succeeds.
It needs but a suggestion to induce him to retire for the night. After
being a few minutes in bed, sleep steals over him, and his heavy
breathing tells that he is in the world of dreams.

And now there comes a tap at the door.

"Come in," is answered.

The latch is lifted, the door swings open, and a woman enters.

"Mrs. Slade!" The name is uttered in a tone of surprise.

"Fanny, how are you this evening?" Kindly, yet half sadly, the words
are said.

"Tolerable, I thank you."

The hands of the two women are clasped, and for a few moments they gaze
into each other's face. What a world of tender commiseration is in that
of Mrs. Slade!

"How is little Mary to-night?"

"Not so well, I'm afraid. She has a good deal of fever."

"Indeed! Oh, I'm sorry! Poor child! what a dreadful thing it was! Oh!
Fanny! you don't know how it has troubled me. I've been intending to
come around all day to see how she was, but couldn't get off until now."

"It came near killing her," said Mrs. Morgan.

"It's in God's mercy she escaped. The thought of it curdles the very
blood in my veins. Poor child! is this her on the settee?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Slade takes a chair, and sitting by the sleeping child, gazes long
upon her pale sweet face. Now the lips of Mary part--words are
murmured--what is she saying?

"No, no, mother; I can't go to bed yet. Father isn't home. And it's so
dark. There's no one to lead him over the bridge. I'm not afraid.
Don't--don't cry so, mother--I'm not afraid! Nothing will hurt me."

The child's face flushes. She moans, and throws her arms about
uneasily. Hark again.

"I wish Mr. Slade wouldn't look so cross at me. He never did when I
went to the mill. He doesn't take me on his knee now, and stroke my
hair. Oh, dear! I wish father wouldn't go there any more. Don't, don't,
Mr. Slade. Oh! oh!"--the ejaculation prolonged into a frightened cry,
"My head! my head!"

A few choking sobs are followed by low moans; and then the child
breathes easily again. But the flush does not leave her cheek; and when
Mrs. Slade, from whose eyes the tears come forth drop by drop, and roll
down her face, touches it lightly, she finds it hot with fever.

"Has the doctor seen her to-day, Fanny?"

"No, ma'am."

"He should see her at once. I will go for him"; and Mrs. Slade starts
up and goes quickly from the room. In a little while she returns with
Doctor Green, who sits down and looks at the child for some moments
with a sober, thoughtful face. Then he lays his fingers on her pulse
and times its beat by his watch--shakes his head, and looks graver
still.

"How long has she had fever?" he asks.

"All day."

"You should have sent for me earlier."

"Oh, doctor! She is not dangerous, I hope?" Mrs. Morgan looks
frightened.

"She's a sick child, madam."

"You've promised, father."--The dreamer is speaking again.--"I'm not
well enough yet. Oh, don't go, father; don't! There! He's gone! Well,
well! I'll try and walk there--I can sit down and rest by the way. Oh,
dear! How tired I am! Father! Father!"

The child starts up and looks about her wildly.

"Oh, mother, is it you?" And she sinks back upon her pillow, looking
now inquiringly from face to face.

"Father--where is father?" she asks.

"Asleep, dear."

"Oh! Is he? I'm glad."

Her eyes close wearily.

"Do you feel any pain, Mary?" inquired the doctor.

"Yes, sir--in my head. It aches and beats so."

The cry of "Father" had reached the ears of Morgan, who is sleeping in
the next room, and roused him into consciousness. He knows the doctor's
voice. Why is he here at this late hour? "Do you feel any pain, Mary?"
The question he hears distinctly, and the faintly uttered reply also.
He is sober enough to have all his fears instantly excited. There is
nothing in the world that he loves as he loves that child. And so he
gets up and dresses himself as quickly as possible; the stimulus of
anxiety giving tension to his relaxed nerves.

"Oh, father!" The quick ears of Mary detect his entrance first, and a
pleasant smile welcomes him.

"Is she very sick, doctor?" he asks, in a voice full of anxiety.

"She's a sick child, sir; you should have sent for me earlier." The
doctor speaks rather sternly, and with a purpose to rebuke.

The reply stirs Morgan, and he seems to cower half timidly under the
words, as if they were blows. Mary has already grasped her father's
hand, and holds on to it tightly.

After examining the case a little more closely, the doctor prepares
some medicine, and, promising to call early in the morning, goes away.
Mrs. Slade follows soon after; but, in parting with Mrs. Morgan, leaves
something in her hand, which, to the surprise of the latter, proves to
be a ten-dollar bill. The tears start to her eyes; and she conceals the
money in her bosom--murmuring a fervent "God bless her!"

A simple act of restitution is this on the part of Mrs. Slade, prompted
as well by humanity as a sense of justice. With one hand her husband
has taken the bread from the family of his old friend, and thus with
the other she restores it.

And now Morgan and his wife are alone with their sick child. Higher the
fever rises, and partial delirium seizes upon her over-excited brain.
She talks for a time almost incessantly. All her trouble is about her
father; and she is constantly referring to his promise not to go out in
the evening until she gets well. How tenderly and touchingly she
appeals to him; now looking up into his face in partial recognition;
and now calling anxiously after him, as if he had left her and was
going away.

"You'll not forget your promise, will you, father?" she says, speaking
so calmly, that he thinks her mind has ceased to wander.

"No, dear; I will not forget it," he answers, smoothing her hair gently
with his hand.

"You'll not go out in the evening again, until I get well?"

"No, dear."

"Father!"

"What, love?"

"Stoop down closer; I don't want mother to hear; it will make her feel
so bad."

The father bends his ear close to the lips of Mary. How he starts and
shudders! What has she said?--only these brief words:

"I shall not get well, father; I'm going to die."

The groans, impossible to repress, that issued through the lips of Joe
Morgan, startled the ears of his wife, and she came quickly to the
bedside.

"What is it? What is the matter, Joe?" she inquired, with a look of
anxiety.

"Hush, father. Don't tell her. I only said it to you." And Mary put a
finger on her lips, and looked mysterious. "There, mother--you go away;
you've got trouble enough, any how. Don't tell her, father."

But the words, which came to him like a prophecy, awoke such pangs of
fear and remorse in the heart of Joe Morgan, that it was impossible for
him to repress the signs of pain. For some moments he gazed at his
wife--then stooping forward, suddenly, he buried his face in the
bed-clothes, and sobbed bitterly.

A suggestion of the truth now flashed through the mind of Mrs. Morgan,
sending a thrill of pain along every nerve. Ere she had time to recover
herself, the low, sweet voice of Mary broke upon the hushed air of the
room, and she sung:

    "Jesus can make a dying bed
      Feel soft as downy pillows are,
    While on His breast I lean my head,
      And breathe my life out, sweetly, there."

It was impossible for Mrs. Morgan longer to repress her feelings. As
the softly breathed strain died away, her sobs broke forth, and for a
time she wept violently.

"There," said the child,--"I didn't mean to tell you. I only told
father, because--because he promised not to go to the tavern any more
until I got well; and I'm not going to get well. So, you see, mother,
he'll never go again--never--never--never. Oh, dear! how my head pains.
Mr. Slade threw it so hard. But it didn't strike father; and I'm so
glad. How it would have hurt him--poor father! But he'll never go there
any more; and that will be so good, won't it, mother?"

A light broke over her face; but seeing that her mother still wept, she
said:

"Don't cry. Maybe I'll be better."

And then her eyes closed heavily, and she slept again.

"Joe," said Mrs. Morgan, after she had in a measure recovered
herself--she spoke firmly--"Joe, did you hear what she said?"

Morgan only answered with a groan.

"Her mind wanders; and yet she may have spoken only the truth."

He groaned again.

"If she should die, Joe--"

"Don't; oh, don't talk so, Fanny. She's not going to die. It's only
because she's a little light-headed."

"Why is she light-headed, Joe?"

"It's the fever--only the fever, Fanny."

"It was the blow, and the wound on her head, that caused the fever. How
do we know the extent of injury on the brain? Doctor Green looked very
serious. I'm afraid, husband, that the worst is before us. I've borne
and suffered a great deal--only God knows how much--I pray that I may
have strength to bear this trial also. Dear child! She is better fitted
for heaven than for earth, and it may be that God is about to take her
to Himself. She's been a great comfort to me--and to you, Joe, more
like a guardian angel than a child."

Mrs. Morgan had tried to speak very firmly; but as sentence followed
sentence, her voice lost more and more of its even tone. With the
closing words all self-control vanished; and she wept bitterly. What
could her feeble, erring husband do, but weep with her?

"Joe,"--Mrs. Morgan aroused herself as quickly as possible, for she had
that to say which she feared she might not have the heart to
utter--"Joe, if Mary dies, you cannot forget the cause of her death."

"Oh, Fanny! Fanny!"

"Nor the hand that struck the cruel blow."

"Forget it? Never! And if I forgive Simon Slade--"

"Nor the place where the blow was dealt," said Mrs. Morgan,
interrupting him.

"Poor--poor child!" moaned the conscience-stricken man.

"Nor your promise, Joe--nor your promise given to our dying child."

"Father! Father! Dear father!" Mary's eyes suddenly unclosed, as she
called her father eagerly.

"Here I am, love. What is it?" And Joe Morgan pressed up to the bedside.

"Oh! it's you, father! I dreamed that you had gone out, and--and--but
you won't will you, dear father?"

"No, love--no."

"Never any more until I get well?"

"I must go out to work, you know, Mary."

"At night, father. That's what I mean. You won't, will you?"

"No, dear, no."

A soft smile trembled over the child's face; her eyelids drooped
wearily, and she fell off into slumber again. She seemed not so
restless as before--did not moan, nor throw herself about in her sleep.

"She's better, I think," said Morgan, as he bent over her, and listened
to her softer breathing.

"It seems so," replied his wife. "And now, Joe, you must go to bed
again. I will lie down here with Mary, and be ready to do any thing for
her that she may want."

"I don't feel sleepy. I'm sure I couldn't close my eyes. So let me sit
up with Mary. You are tired and worn out."

Mrs. Morgan looked earnestly into her husband's face. His eyes were
unusually bright, and she noticed a slight nervous restlessness about
his lips. She laid one of her hands on his, and perceived a slight
tremor.

"You must go to bed," she spoke firmly. "I shall not let you sit up
with Mary. So go at once." And she drew him almost by force into the
next room.

"It's no use, Fanny. There's not a wink of sleep in my eyes. I shall
lie awake anyhow. So do you get a little rest." Even as he spoke there
were nervous twitchings of his arms and shoulders; and as he entered
the chamber, impelled by his wife, he stopped suddenly and said:

"What is that?"

"Where?" asked Mrs. Morgan.

"Oh, it's nothing--I see. Only one of my old boots. I thought it a
great black cat."

Oh! what a shudder of despair seized upon the heart of the wretched
wife. Too well she knew the fearful signs of that terrible madness from
which, twice before, he had suffered. She could have looked on calmly
and seen him die--but, "Not this--not this! Oh, Father in heaven!" she
murmured, with such a heart-sinking that it seemed as if life itself
would go out.

"Get into bed, Joe; get into bed as quickly as possible."

Morgan was now passive in the hands of his wife, and obeyed her almost
like a child. He had turned down the bed-clothes, and was about getting
in, when he started back, with a look of disgust and alarm.

"There's nothing there, Joe. What's the matter with you?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Fanny," and his teeth rattled together, as he
spoke. "I thought there was a great toad under the clothes."

"How foolish you are!"--yet tears were blinding her eyes as she said
this. "It's only fancy. Get into bed and shut your eyes. I'll make you
another cup of strong coffee. Perhaps that will do you good. You're
only a little nervous. Mary's sickness has disturbed you."

Joe looked cautiously under the bedclothes, as he lifted them up still
farther, and peered beneath.

"You know there's nothing in your bed, see!"

And Mrs. Morgan threw with a single jerk all the clothes upon the floor.

"There now! look for yourself. Now shut your eyes," she continued as
she spread the sheet and quilt over him after his head was on the
pillow. "Shut them tight and keep them so until I boil the water and
make a cup of coffee You know as well as I do that it's nothing but
fancy."

Morgan closed his eyes firmly, and drew the clothes over his head.

"I'll be back in a few minutes" said his wife going hurriedly to the
door. Ere leaving, however she partly turned her head and glanced back.
There sat her husband upright and staring fearfully.

"Don't Fanny! don't go away!" he cried in a frightened voice.

Joe! Joe! why will you be so foolish? It's nothing but imagination. Now
do lie down and shut your eyes. Keep them shut. There now.

And she laid a hand over his eyes and pressed it down tightly.

"I wish Doctor Green was here," said the wretched man. "He could give
me something."

"Shall I go for him?"

"Go Fanny! Run over right quickly"

"But you won't keep in bed"

"Yes I will. There, now" And he drew the clothes over his face "There
I'll lie just so until you come back. Now run Fanny, and don't stay a
minute."

Scarcely stopping to think Mrs. Morgan went hurriedly from the room and
drawing an old shawl over her head started with swift feet for the
residence of Doctor Green which was not very far away. The kind doctor
understood at a word the sad condition of her husband and promised to
attend him immediately. Back she flew at even a wilder speed her heart
throbbing with vague apprehension. Oh! what a fearful cry was that
which smote her ears as she came within a few paces of home. She knew
the voice, changed as it was by terror, and a shudder almost palsied
her heart. At a single bound she cleared the intervening space and in
the next moment was in the room where she had left her husband. But he
was not there! With suspended breath, and feet that scarcely obeyed her
will, she passed into the chamber where little Mary lay. Not here!

"Joe! husband!" she called in a faint voice.

"Here he is, mother." And now she saw that Joe had crept into the bed
behind the sick child and that her arm was drawn tightly around his
neck.

"You won't let them hurt me, will you dear?" said the pool frightened
victim of a terrible mania.

"Nothing will hurt you father," answered Mary, in a voice that showed
her mind to be clear, and fully conscious of her parent's true
condition.

She had seen him thus before. Ah! what an experience for a child!

"You're an angel--my good angel, Mary," he murmured, in a voice yet
trembling with fear "Pray for me, my child. Oh ask your father in
heaven to save me from these dreadful creatures. There now!" he cried,
rising up suddenly and looking toward the door. "Keep out! Go away! You
can't come in here. This is Mary's room, and she's an angel. Ah, ha! I
knew you wouldn't dare come in here--

    "A single saint can put to flight
    Ten thousand blustering sons of night"

He added in a half wandering way yet with an assured voice, as he laid
himself back upon his pillow and drew the clothes over his head.

"Poor father!" sighed the child as she gathered both arms about his
neck! "I will be your good angel. Nothing shall hurt you here."

"I knew I would be safe where you were," he whispered--"I knew it, and
so I came. Kiss me, love."

How pure and fervent was the kiss laid instantly upon his lips! There
was a power in it to remand the evil influences that were surrounding
and pressing in upon him like a flood. All was quiet now, and Mrs.
Morgan neither by word nor movement disturbed the solemn stillness that
reigned in the apartment. In a few minutes the deepened breathing of
her husband gave a blessed intimation that he was sinking into sleep.
Oh, sleep! sleep! How tearfully, in times past, had she prayed that he
might sleep; and yet no sleep came for hours and days--even though
powerful opiates were given--until exhausted nature yielded, and then
sleep had a long, long struggle with death. Now the sphere of his
loving, innocent child seemed to have overcome, at least for the time,
the evil influences that were getting possession even of his external
senses. Yes, yes, he was sleeping! Oh, what a fervent "Thank God!" went
up from the heart of his stricken wife.

Soon the quick ears of Mrs. Morgan detected the doctor's approaching
footsteps, and she met him at the door with a finger on her lips. A
whispered word or two explained the better aspect of affairs, and the
doctor said, encouragingly:

"That's good, if he will only sleep on."

"Do you think he will, doctor?" was asked anxiously.

"He may. But we cannot hope too strongly. It would be something very
unusual."

Both passed noiselessly into the chamber. Morgan still slept, and by
his deep breathing it was plain that he slept soundly. And Mary, too,
was sleeping, her face now laid against her father's, and her arms
still about his neck. The sight touched even the doctor's heart and
moistened his eyes. For nearly half an hour he remained; and then, as
Morgan continued to sleep, he left medicine to be given immediately,
and went home, promising to call early in the morning.

It is now past midnight, and we leave the lonely, sad-hearted watcher
with her sick ones.

I was sitting, with a newspaper in my hand--not reading, but musing--at
the "Sickle and Sheaf," late in the evening marked by the incidents
just detailed.

"Where's your mother?" I heard Simon Slade inquire. He had just entered
an adjoining room.

"She's gone out somewhere," was answered by his daughter Flora.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"How long has she been away?"

"More than an hour."

"And you don't know where she went to?"

"No, sir."

Nothing more was said, but I heard the landlord's heavy feet moving
backward and forward across the room for some minutes.

"Why, Ann! where have you been?" The door of the next room had opened
and shut.

"Where I wish you had been with me," was answered in a very firm voice.

"Where?"

"To Joe Morgan's."

"Humph!" Only this ejaculation met my ears. But something was said in a
low voice, to which Mrs. Slade replied with some warmth:

"If you don't have his child's blood clinging for life to your
garments, you may be thankful."

"What do you mean?" he asked, quickly.

"All that my words indicate. Little Mary is very ill!"

"Well, what of it?"

"Much. The doctor thinks her in great danger. The cut on her head has
thrown her into a violent fever, and she is delirious. Oh, Simon! if
you had heard what I heard to-night."

"What?" was asked in a growling tone.

"She is out of her mind, as I said, and talks a great deal. She talked
about you."

"Of me! Well, what had she to say?"

"She said--so pitifully--'I wish Mr. Slade wouldn't look so cross at
me. He never did when I went to the mill. He doesn't take me on his
knee now, and stroke my hair. Oh, dear!' Poor child! She was always so
good."

"Did she say that?" Slade seemed touched.

"Yes, and a great deal more. Once she screamed out, 'Oh, don't! don't,
Mr. Slade! don't! My head! my head!' It made my very heart ache. I can
never forget her pale, frightened face, nor her cry of fear. Simon--if
she should die!"

There was a long silence.

"If we were only back to the mill." It was Mrs. Slade's voice.

"There, now! I don't want to hear that again," quickly spoke out the
landlord. "I made a slave of myself long enough."

"You had at least a clear conscience," his wife answered.

"Do hush, will you?" Slade was now angry. "One would think, by the way
you talk sometimes, that I had broken every command of the Decalogue."

"You will break hearts as well as commandments, if you keep on for a
few years as you have begun--and ruin souls as well as fortunes."

Mrs. Slade spoke calmly, but with marked severity of tone. Her husband
answered with an oath, and then left the room, banging the door after
him. In the hush that followed I retired to my chamber, and lay for an
hour awake, pondering on all I had just heard. What a revelation was in
that brief passage of words between the landlord and his excited
companion!

NIGHT THE FOURTH.

DEATH OF LITTLE MARY MORGAN.

"Where are you going, Ann?" It was the landlord's voice. Time--a little
after dark.

"I'm going over to see Mrs. Morgan," answered his wife.

"What for?"

"I wish to go," was replied.

"Well, I don't wish you to go," said Slade, in a very decided way.

"I can't help that, Simon. Mary, I'm told, is dying, and Joe is in a
dreadful way. I'm needed there--and so are you, as to that matter.
There was a time when, if word came to you that Morgan or his family
were in trouble--"

"Do hush, will you!" exclaimed the landlord, angrily. "I won't be
preached to in this way any longer."

"Oh, well; then don't interfere with my movements, Simon; that's all I
have to say. I'm needed over there, as I just said, and I'm going."

There were considerable odds against him, and Slade, perceiving this,
turned off, muttering something that his wife did not hear, and she
went on her way. A hurried walk brought her to the wretched home of the
poor drunkard, whose wife met her at the door.

"How is Mary?" was the visitor's earnest inquiry.

Mrs. Morgan tried to answer the question; but, though her lips moved,
no sounds issued therefrom.

Mrs. Slade pressed her hands tightly in both of hers; and then passed
in with her to the room where the child lay. A stance sufficed to tell
Mrs. Slade that death had already laid his icy fingers upon her brow.

"How are you, dear?" she asked, as she bent over and kissed her.

"Better, I thank you!" replied Mary, in a low whisper.

Then she fixed her eyes upon her mother's face with a look of inquiry.

"What is it, love?"

"Hasn't father waked up yet?"

"No, dear."

"Won't he wake up soon?"

"He's sleeping very soundly. I wouldn't like to disturb him."

"Oh, no; don't disturb him. I thought, maybe, he was awake."

And the child's lids drooped languidly, until the long lashes lay close
against her cheeks.

There was silence for a little while, and then Mrs. Morgan said in a
half-whisper to Mrs. Slade:

"Oh, we've had such a dreadful time with poor Joe. He got in that
terrible way again last night. I had to go for Doctor Green and leave
him all alone. When I came back, he was in bed with Mary; and she, dear
child, had her arms around his neck, and was trying to comfort him; and
would you believe it, he went off to sleep, and slept in that way for a
long time. The doctor came, and when he saw how it was, left some
medicine for him, and went away. I was in such hopes that he would
sleep it all off. But about twelve o'clock he started up, and sprung
out of bed with an awful scream. Poor Mary! she too had fallen asleep.
The cry wakened her, and frightened her dreadfully. She's been getting
worse ever since, Mrs. Slade.

"Just as he was rushing out of the room, I caught him by the arm, and
it took all my strength to hold him.

"'Father! father!' Mary called after him as soon as she was awake
enough to understand what was the matter--'Don't go out, father;
there's nothing here.'

"He looked back toward the bed, in a frightful way.

"'See, father!' and the dear child turned down the quilt and sheet, in
order to convince him that nothing was in the bed. 'I'm here,' she
added. 'I'm not afraid. Come, father. If there's nothing here to hurt
me, there's nothing to hurt you.'

"There was something so assuring in this, that Joe took a step or two
toward the bed, looking sharply into it as he did so. From the bed his
eyes wandered up to the ceiling, and the old look of terror came into
his face.

"'There it is now! Jump out of bed, quick! Jump out, Mary!' he cried.
'See! it's right over your head.'

"Mary showed no sign of fear as she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and
gazed steadily for a few moments in that direction.

"'There's nothing there, father,' said she, in a confident voice.

"'It's gone now,' Joe spoke in a tone of relief. 'Your angel-look drove
it away. Aha! There it is now, creeping along the floor!' he suddenly
exclaimed, fearfully; starting away from where he stood.

"'Here, father'! Here!' Mary called to him, and he sprung into the bed
again; while she gathered her arms about him tightly, saying in a low,
soothing voice, 'Nothing can harm you here, father.'

"Without a moment's delay, I gave him the morphine left by Doctor
Green. He took it eagerly, and then crouched down in the bed, while
Mary continued to assure him of perfect safety. So long as he was
clearly conscious as to where he was, he remained perfectly still. But,
as soon as partial slumber came, he would scream out, and spring from
the bed in terror and then it would take us several minutes to quiet
him again. Six times during the night did this occur; and as often,
Mary coaxed him back. The morphine I continued to give as the doctor
had directed. By morning, the opiates had done their work, and he was
sleeping soundly. When the doctor came, we removed him to his own bed.
He is still asleep; and I begin to feel uneasy, lest he should never
awake again. I have heard of this happening."

"See if father isn't awake," said Mary, raising her head from the
pillow. She had not heard what passed between her mother and Mrs.
Slade, for the conversation was carried on in low voices.

Mrs. Morgan stepped to the door, and looked into the room where her
husband lay.

"He is still asleep, dear," she remarked, coming back to the bed.

"Oh! I wish he was awake. I want to see him so much. Won't you call
him, mother?"

"I have called him a good many times. But you know the doctor gave him
opium. He can't wake up yet."

"He's been sleeping a very long time; don't you think so, mother?"

"Yes, dear, it does seem a long time. But it is best for him. He'll be
better when he wakes."

Mary closed her eyes, wearily. How deathly white was her face--how
sunken her eyes--how sharply contracted her features!

"I've given her up, Mrs. Slade," said Mrs. Morgan, in a low, rough,
choking whisper, as she leaned nearer to her friend. "I've given her
up! The worst is over; but, oh! it seemed as though my heart would
break in the struggle. Dear child! In all the darkness of my way, she
has helped and comforted me. Without her, it would have been the
blackness of darkness."

"Father! father!" The voice of Mary broke out with a startling
quickness.

Mrs. Morgan turned to the bed, and laying her hand on Mary's arm said:

"He's still sound asleep, dear."

"No, he isn't, mother. I heard him move. Won't you go in and see if he
is awake?"

In order to satisfy the child, her mother left the room. To her
surprise, she met the eyes of her husband as she entered the chamber
where he lay. He looked at her calmly.

"What does Mary want with me?" he asked.

"She wishes to see you. She's called you so many times. Shall I bring
her in here?"

"No. I'll get up and dress myself."

"I wouldn't do that. You've been sick."

"Father! father!" The clear, earnest voice of Mary was heard calling.

"I'm coming, dear," answered Morgan.

"Come quick, father, won't you?"

"Yes, love." And Morgan got up and dressed himself--but with unsteady
hands, and every sign of nervous prostration. In a little while, with
the assistance of his wife, he was ready, and supported by her, came
tottering into the room where Mary was lying.

"Oh, father!"--What a light broke over her countenance.--"I've been
waiting for you so long. I thought you were never going to wake up.
Kiss me, father."

"What can I do for you, Mary?" asked Morgan, tenderly, as he laid his
face down upon the pillow beside her.

"Nothing, father. I don't wish for anything. I only wanted to see you."

"I'm here now, love."

"Dear father!" How earnestly, yet tenderly she spoke, laying her small
hand upon his face. "You've always been good to me, father."

"Oh, no. I've never been good to anybody," sobbed the weak,
broken-spirited man, as he raised himself from the pillow.

How deeply touched was Mrs. Slade, as she sat, the silent witness of
this scene!

"You haven't been good to yourself, father--but you've always been good
to us."

"Don't, Mary! don't say anything about that," interrupted Morgan. "Say
that I've been very bad--very wicked. Oh, Mary, dear! I only wish that
I was as good as you are; I'd like to die, then, and go right away from
this evil world. I wish there was no liquor to drink--no taverns--no
bar-rooms. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I was dead."

And the weak, trembling, half-palsied man laid his face again upon the
pillow beside his child, and sobbed aloud.

What an oppressive silence reigned for a time through the room!

"Father." The stillness was broken by Mary. Her voice was clear and
even. "Father, I want to tell you something."

"What is it, Mary?"

"There'll be nobody to go for you, father." The child's lips now
quivered, and tears filled into her eyes.

"Don't talk about that, Mary. I'm not going out in the evening any more
until you get well. Don't you remember I promised?"

"But, father"--She hesitated.

"What, dear?"

"I'm going away to leave you and mother."

"Oh, no--no--no, Mary! Don't say that."--The poor man's voice was
broken.--"Don't say that! We can't let you go, dear."

"God has called me." The child's voice had a solemn tone, and her eyes
turned reverently upward.

"I wish He would call me! Oh, I wish He would call me!" groaned Morgan,
hiding his face in his hands. "What shall I do when you are gone? Oh,
dear! Oh. dear!"

"Father!" Mary spoke calmly again. "You are not ready to go yet. God
will let you live here longer, that you may get ready."

"How can I get ready without you to help me, Mary? My angel child!"

"Haven't I tried to help you, father, oh, so many times?" said Mary.

"Yes--yes--you've always tried."

"But it wasn't any use. You would go out--you would go to the tavern.
It seemed most as if you couldn't help it."

Morgan groaned in spirit.

"Maybe I can help you better, father, after I die. I love you so much,
that I am sure God will let me come to you, and stay with you always,
and be your angel. Don't you think he will, mother?"

But Mrs. Morgan's heart was too full. She did not even try to answer,
but sat, with streaming eyes, gazing upon her child's face.

"Father. I dreamed something about you, while I slept to-day." Mary
again turned to her father.

"What was it, dear?"

"I thought it was night, and that I was still sick. You promised not to
go out again until I was well. But you did go out; and I thought you
went over to Mr. Slade's tavern. When I knew this, I felt as strong as
when I was well, and I got up and dressed myself, and started out after
you. But I hadn't gone far, before I met Mr. Slade's great bull-dog,
Nero, and he growled at me so dreadfully that I was frightened and ran
back home. Then I started again, and went away round by Mr. Mason's.
But there was Nero in the road, and this time he caught my dress in his
mouth and tore a great piece out of the skirt. I ran back again, and he
chased me all the way home. Just as I got to the door. I looked around,
and there was Mr. Slade, setting Nero on me. As soon as I saw Mr.
Slade, though he looked at me very wicked, I lost all my fear, and
turning around, I walked past Nero, who showed his teeth, and growled
as fiercely as ever, but didn't touch me. Then Mr. Slade tried to stop
me. But I didn't mind him, and kept right on, until I came to the
tavern, and there you stood in the door. And you were dressed so nice.
You had on a new hat and a new coat; and your boots were new, and
polished just like Judge Hammond's. I said: 'Oh father! is this you?'
And then you took me up in your arms and kissed me, and said: 'Yes,
Mary, I am your real father. Not old Joe Morgan--but Mr. Morgan now.'
It seemed all so strange, that I looked into the bar-room to see who
was there. But it wasn't a bar-room any longer; but a store full of
goods. The sign of the 'Sickle and Sheaf' was taken down; and over the
door I now read your name, father. Oh! I was so glad, that I awoke--and
then I cried all to myself, for it was only a dream."

The last words were said very mournfully, and with a drooping of Mary's
lids, until the tear-gemmed lashes lay close upon her cheeks. Another
period of deep silence followed--for the oppressed listeners gave no
utterance to what was in their hearts. Feeling was too strong for
speech. Nearly five minutes glided away, and then Mary whispered the
name of her father, but without opening her eyes.

Morgan answered, and bent down his ear.

"You will only have mother left," she said--"only mother. And she cries
so much when you are away."

"I won't leave her, Mary, only when I go to work," said Morgan,
whispering back to the child. "And I'll never go out at night any more."

"Yes; you promised me that."

"And I'll promise more."

"What, father?"

"Never to go into a tavern again."

"Never!"

"No, never. And I'll promise still more."

"Father?"

"Never to drink a drop of liquor as long as I live."

"Oh, father! dear, dear father!" And with a cry of joy Mary started up
and flung herself upon his breast. Morgan drew his arms tightly around
her, and sat for a long time, with his lips pressed to her cheek--while
she lay against his bosom as still as death. As death? Yes: for when
the father unclasped his arms, the spirit of his child was with the
angels of the resurrection!

It was my fourth evening in the bar-room of the 'Sickle and Sheaf'. The
company was not large, nor in very gay spirits. All had heard of little
Mary's illness; which followed so quickly on the blow from the tumbler,
that none hesitated about connecting the one with the other. So regular
had been the child's visits, and so gently excited, yet powerful her
influence over her father, that most of the frequenters at the 'Sickle
and Sheaf' had felt for her a more than common interest; which the
cruel treatment she received, and the subsequent illness, materially
heightened.

"Joe Morgan hasn't turned up this evening," remarked some one.

"And isn't likely to for a while" was answered.

"Why not?" inquired the first speaker.

"They say the man with the poker is after him."

"Oh, dear that's dreadful. Its the second or third chase, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"He'll be likely to catch him this time."

"I shouldn't wonder."

"Poor devil! It won't be much matter. His family will be a great deal
better without him."

"It will be a blessing to them if he dies."

"Miserable, drunken wretch!" muttered Harvey Green who was present.
"He's only in the way of everybody. The sooner he's off, the better."

The landlord said nothing. He stood leaning across the bar, looking
more sober than usual.

"That was rather an unlucky affair of yours Simon. They say the child
is going to die."

"Who says so?" Slade started, scowled and threw a quick glance upon the
speaker.

"Doctor Green."

"Nonsense! Doctor Green never said any such thing."

"Yes, he did though."

"Who heard him?"

"I did."

"You did?"

"Yes."

"He wasn't in earnest?" A slight paleness overspread the countenance of
the landlord. "He was, though. They had an awful time there last night."

"Where?"

"At Joe Morgan's. Joe has the mania, and Mrs. Morgan was alone with him
and her sick girl all night."

"He deserves to have it; that's all I've got to say." Slade tried to
speak with a kind of rough indifference.

"That's pretty hard talk," said one of the company.

"I don't care if it is. It's the truth. What else could he expect?"

"A man like Joe is to be pitied," remarked the other.

"I pity his family," said Slade.

"Especially little Mary." The words were uttered tauntingly, and
produced murmurs of satisfaction throughout the room.

Slade started back from where he stood, in an impatient manner, saying
something that I did not hear.

"Look here, Simon, I heard some strong suggestions over at Lawyer
Phillips' office to-day."

Slade turned his eyes upon the speaker.

"If that child should die, you'll probably have to stand a trial for
man-slaughter."

"No--girl-slaughter," said Harvey Green, with a cold, inhuman chuckle.

"But I'm in earnest." said the other. "Mr. Phillips said that a case
could be made out of it."

"It was only an accident, and all the lawyers in Christendom can't make
anything more of it," remarked Green, taking the side of the landlord,
and speaking with more gravity than before.

"Hardly an accident," was replied.

"He didn't throw at the girl."

"No matter. He threw a heavy tumbler at her father's head. The
intention was to do an injury; and the law will not stop to make any
nice discriminations in regard to the individual upon whom the injury
was wrought. Moreover, who is prepared to say that he didn't aim at the
girl?"

"Any man who intimates such a thing is a cursed liar!" exclaimed the
landlord, half maddened by the suggestion.

"I won't throw a tumbler at your head," coolly remarked the individual
whose plain speaking had so irritated Simon Slade, "Throwing tumblers I
never thought a very creditable kind of argument--though with some men,
when cornered, it is a favorite mode of settling a question. Now, as
for our friend the landlord, I am sorry to say that his new business
doesn't seem to have improved his manners or his temper a great deal.
As a miller, he was one of the best-tempered men in the world, and
wouldn't have harmed a kitten. But, now, he can swear, and bluster, and
throw glasses at people's heads, and all that sort of thing, with the
best of brawling rowdies. I'm afraid he's taking lessons in a bad
school--I am."

"I don't think you have any right to insult a man in his own house,"
answered Slade, in a voice dropped to a lower key than the one in which
he had before spoken.

"I had no intention to insult you," said the other. "I was only
speaking supposititiously, and in view of your position on a trial for
manslaughter, when I suggested that no one could prove, or say that you
didn't mean to strike little Mary, when you threw the tumbler."

"Well, I didn't mean to strike her: and I don't believe there is a man
in this bar-room who thinks that I did--not one."

"I'm sure I do not," said the individual with whom he was in
controversy. "Nor I"--"Nor I" went round the room.

"But, as I wished to set forth," was continued, "the case will not be
so plain a one when it finds its way into court, and twelve men, to
each of whom you may be a stranger, come to sit in judgment upon the
act. The slightest twist in the evidence, the prepossessions of a
witness, or the bad tact of the prosecution, may cause things to look
so dark on your side as to leave you but little chance. For my part, if
the child should die, I think your chances for a term in the state's
prison are as eight to ten; and I should call that pretty close
cutting."

I looked attentively at the man who said this, all the while he was
speaking, but could not clearly make out whether he were altogether in
earnest, or merely trying to worry the mind of Slade. That he was
successful in accomplishing the latter, was very plain; for the
landlord's countenance steadily lost color, and became overcast with
alarm. With that evil delight which some men take in giving pain,
others, seeing Slade's anxious looks, joined in the persecution, and
soon made the landlord's case look black enough; and the landlord
himself almost as frightened as a criminal just under arrest.

"It's bad business, and no mistake," said one.

"Yes, bad enough. I wouldn't be in his shoes for his coat," remarked
another.

"For his coat? No, not for his whole wardrobe," said a third.

"Nor for the 'Sickle and Sheaf thrown into the bargain," added a fourth.

"It will be a clear case of manslaughter, and no mistake. What is the
penalty?"

"From two to ten years in the penitentiary," was readily answered.

"They'll give him five. I reckon."

"No--not more than two. It will be hard to prove malicious intention."

"I don't know that. I've heard him curse the girl and threaten her many
a time. Haven't you?"

"Yes"--"Yes"--"I have, often," ran round the bar-room.

"You'd better hang me at once," said Slade, affecting to laugh.

At this moment, the door behind Slade opened, and I saw his wife's
anxious face thrust in for a moment. She said something to her husband,
who uttered a low ejaculation of surprise, and went out quickly.

"What's the matter now?" asked one of another.

"I shouldn't wonder if little Mary Morgan was dead," was suggested.

"I heard her say dead," remarked one who was standing near the bar.

"What's the matter, Frank?" inquired several voices, as the landlord's
son came in through the door out of which his father had passed.

"Mary Morgan is dead," answered the boy.

"Poor child! Poor child!" sighed one, in genuine regret at the not
unlooked for intelligence. "Her trouble is over."

And there was not one present, but Harvey Green, who did not utter some
word of pity or sympathy. He shrugged his shoulders, and looked as much
of contempt and indifference as he thought it prudent to express.

"See here, boys," spoke out one of the company, "can't we do something
for poor Mrs. Morgan? Can't we make up a purse for her?"

"That's it," was quickly responded; "I'm good for three dollars; and
there they are," drawing out the money and laying it upon the counter.

"And here are five to go with them," said I, quickly stepping forward,
and placing a five-dollar bill along side of the first contribution.

"Here are five more," added a third individual. And so it went on,
until thirty dollars were paid down for the benefit of Mrs. Morgan.

"Into whose hands shall this be placed?" was next asked.

"Let me suggest Mrs. Slade," said I. "To my certain knowledge, she has
been with Mrs. Morgan to-night. I know that she feels in her a true
woman's interest."

"Just the person," was answered. "Frank, tell your mother we would like
to see her. Ask her to step into the sitting-room."

In a few moments the boy came back, and said that his mother would see
us in the next room, into which we all passed. Mrs. Slade stood near
the table, on which burned a lamp. I noticed that her eyes were red,
and that there was on her countenance a troubled and sorrowful
expression.

"We have just heard," said one of the company, "that little Mary Morgan
is dead."

"Yes--it is too true," answered Mrs. Slade, mournfully. "I have just
left there. Poor child! she has passed from an evil world."

"Evil it has indeed been to her," was remarked.

"You may well say that. And yet, amid all the evil, she been an angel
of mercy. Her last thought in dying was of her miserable father. For
him, at any time, she would have laid down her life willingly."

"Her mother must be nearly broken-hearted. Mary is the last of her
children."

"And yet the child's death may prove a blessing to her."

"How so?"

"Her father promised Mary, just at the last moment--solemnly promised
her--that, henceforth, he would never taste liquor. That was all her
trouble. That was the thorn in her dying pillow. But he plucked it out,
and she went to sleep, lying against his heart. Oh, gentlemen! it was
the most touching sight I ever saw."

All present seemed deeply moved.

"They are very poor and wretched." was said.

"Poor and miserable enough," answered Mrs.' Slade.

"We have just been taking up a collection for Mrs. Morgan. Here is the
money, Mrs. Slade--thirty dollars--we place it in your hands for her
benefit. Do with it, for her, as you may see best."

"Oh, gentlemen!" What a quick gleam went over the face of Mrs. Slade.
"I thank you, from my heart, in the name of that unhappy one, for this
act of true benevolence. To you the sacrifice has been small, to her
the benefit will be great indeed. A new life will, I trust be commenced
by her husband, and this timely aid will be something to rest upon,
until he can get into better employment than he now has. Oh, gentlemen!
let me urge on you, one and all, to make common cause in favor of Joe
Morgan. His purposes are good now, he means to keep his promise to his
dying child--means to reform his life. Let good impulses that led to
that act of relief further prompt you to watch over him and, if you see
him about going astray, to lead him kindly back into the right path.
Never--oh' never encourage him to drink, but rather take the glass from
his hand, if his own appetite lead him aside and by all the persuasive
influence you possess, induce him to go out from the place of
temptation.

"Pardon my boldness in saying so much" added Mrs. Slade, recollecting
herself and coloring deeply as she did so "My feelings have led me
away."

And she took the money from the table where it had been placed, and
retired toward the door.

"You have spoken well madam" was answered "And we thank you for
reminding us of our duty."

"One word more--and forgive the earnest heart from which it
comes"--said Mrs. Slade in a voice that trembled on the words she
uttered "I cannot help speaking, gentlemen! Think if some of you be not
entering the road wherein Joe Morgan has so long been walking. Save him
in heaven's name! but see that ye do not yourselves become castaways!"

As she said this she glided through the door and it closed after her.

"I don't know what her husband would say to that," was remarked after a
few moments of surprised silence.

"I don't care what HE would say, but I'll tell you what _I_ will say"
spoke out a man whom I had several times noticed as a rather a free
tippler "The old lady has given us capital advice, and I mean to take
it, for one. I'm going to try to save Joe Morgan, and--myself too. I've
already entered the road she referred to; but I'm going to turn back.
So good-night to you all; and if Simon Slade gets no more of my
sixpences, he may thank his wife for it--God bless her!"

And the man drew his hat with a jerk over his forehead, and left
immediately.

This seemed the signal for dispersion, and all retired--not by way of
the bar-room, but out into the hall, and through the door leading upon
the porch that ran along in front of the house. Soon after the bar was
closed, and a dead silence reigned throughout the house. I saw no more
of Slade that night. Early in the morning, I left Cedarville; the
landlord looked very sober when he bade me good-bye through the
stage-door, and wished me a pleasant journey.

NIGHT THE FIFTH.

SOME OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF TAVERN-KEEPING.

Nearly five years glided away before business again called me to
Cedarville. I knew little of what passed there in the interval, except
that Simon Slade had actually been indicted for manslaughter, in
causing the death of Morgan's child. He did not stand a trial, however,
Judge Lyman having used his influence, successfully, in getting the
indictment quashed. The judge, some people said, interested himself in
Slade more than was just seemly--especially, as he had, on several
occasions, in the discharge of his official duties, displayed what
seemed an over-righteous indignation against individuals arraigned for
petty offences. The impression made upon me by Judge Lyman had not been
favorable. He seemed a cold, selfish, scheming man of the world. That
he was an unscrupulous politician, was plain to me, in a single
evening's observation of his sayings and doings among the common herd
of a village bar-room.

As the stage rolled, with a gay flourish of our driver's bugle, into
the village, I noted here and there familiar objects, and marked the
varied evidences of change. Our way was past the elegant residence and
grounds of Judge Hammond, the most beautiful and highly cultivated in