Edward dutifully acquiesced, and George became his partner in the business.  He was not a valuable partner:  he had been meddling with drink before; he soon developed into a constant tippler now, and his flesh and eyes showed the fact unpleasantly.  Edward had been courting a sweet and kindly spirited girl for some time.  They loved each other dearly, and—­But about this period George began to haunt her tearfully and imploringly, and at last she went crying to Edward, and said her high and holy duty was plain before her —­she must not let her own selfish desires interfere with it:  she must marry “poor George” and “reform him.”  It would break her heart, she knew it would, and so on; but duty was duty.  So she married George, and Edward’s heart came very near breaking, as well as her own.  However, Edward recovered, and married another girl —­a very excellent one she was, too.

Children came to both families.  Mary did her honest best to reform her husband, but the contract was too large.  George went on drinking, and by and by he fell to misusing her and the little ones sadly.  A great many good people strove with George—­they were always at it, in fact—­but he calmly took such efforts as his due and their duty, and did not mend his ways.  He added a vice, presently—­that of secret gambling.  He got deeply in debt; he borrowed money on the firm’s credit, as quietly as he could, and carried this system so far and so successfully that one morning the sheriff took possession of the establishment, and the two cousins found themselves penniless.

Times were hard, now, and they grew worse.  Edward moved his family into a garret, and walked the streets day and night, seeking work.  He begged for it, but it was really not to be had.  He was astonished to see how soon his face became unwelcome; he was astonished and hurt to see how quickly the ancient interest which people had had in him faded out and disappeared.  Still, he must get work; so he swallowed his chagrin, and toiled on in search of it.  At last he got a job of carrying bricks up a ladder in a hod, and was a grateful man in consequence; but after that nobody knew him or cared anything about him.  He was not able to keep up his dues in the various moral organizations to which he belonged, and had to endure the sharp pain of seeing himself brought under the disgrace of suspension.

But the faster Edward died out of public knowledge and interest, the faster George rose in them.  He was found lying, ragged and drunk, in the gutter one morning.  A member of the Ladies’ Temperance Refuge fished him out, took him in hand, got up a subscription for him, kept him sober a whole week, then got a situation for him.  An account of it was published.