The tears as she spoke ran silently, but bitterly, down her cheeks.

“When I think of what your poor lost father was,” she added, “when we wor happy, and when he was good, and when I think of what he is now—­oh, my God, my God,” she sobbed’ out, “my manly young husband, what curse has come over you that has brought you down to this!  Curse! oh, fareer gair, it’s a curse that’s too well known in the country—­it’s the curse that laves many an industrious man’s house as ours is this bitther night—­it’s the curse that takes away good name and comfort, and honesty (that’s the only thing it has left us)—­that takes away the strength of both body and mind—­that banishes dacency and shame—­that laves many a widow and orphan to the marcy of an unfeelin’ world—­that fills the jail and the madhouse—­that brings many a man an’ woman to a disgraceful death—­an’ that tempts us to the commission of every evil;—­that curse, darlins, is whiskey—­drinkin’ whiskey—­an’ it is drinkin’ whiskey that has left us as we are, and that has ruined your father, and destroyed him forever.”

“Well, but there’s no other curse over us, mother?”

The mother paused a moment—­

“No, darlin’,” she replied; “not a curse—­but my father and mother both died, and did not give me their blessin’; but now, Atty, don’t ask me anything more about that, bekase I can’t tell you.”  This she added from a feeling of delicacy to her unhappy husband, whom, through all his faults and vices, she constantly held up to her children as an object of respect, affection, and obedience.

Again the little ones were getting importunate for food, and their cries were enough to touch any heart, much less that of a tender and loving mother.  Margaret herself felt that some unusual delay must have occurred, or the messenger she sent to her sister must have long since returned; just then a foot was heard outside the door, and there was an impatient cessation of the cries, in the hope that it was the return of Nanny Hart—­the door opened, and Toal Finnigan entered this wretched abode of sorrow and destitution.

There was something peculiarly hateful about this man, but in the eyes of Margaret there was something intensely so.  She knew right well that he had been the worst and most demoralizing companion her husband ever associated with, and she had, besides, every reason to believe that, were it not for his evil influence over the vain and wretched man, he might have overcome his fatal propensity to tipple.  She had often told Art this; but little Toal’s tongue was too sweet, when aided by his dupe’s vanity.  Many a time had she observed a devilish leer of satanic triumph in the misshapen little scoundrel’s eye, when bringing home her husband in a state of beastly intoxication, and for this reason, independently of her knowledge of his vile and heartless disposition, and infamous character, she detested him.  After entering, he looked about him, and even with the taint light of the rush she could mark that his unnatural and revolting features were lit up with a hellish triumph.