THE FACTORY GIRL.

There was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon.  His farm, once the best tilled and most productive in the neighbourhood, began to show evidences of neglect and unfruitfulness; and that he was going behindhand in the world, was too apparent in the fact, that, within two years he had sold twenty acres of good meadow, and, moreover, was under the necessity of borrowing three hundred dollars on a mortgage of his landed property.  And yet, Mr. Bacon had not laid aside his habits of industry.  He was up, as of old, with the dawn, and turned not his feet homeward from the field until the sun had taken his parting glance from the distant hill-tops.

A kind-hearted, cheerful-minded man was old Mr. Bacon, well liked by all his neighbours, and loved by his own household.  His two oldest children died ere reaching the age of manhood; three remained.  Mary Bacon, the eldest of those who survived, now in her nineteenth year, had been from earliest childhood her father’s favourite; and, as she advanced towards womanhood, she had grown more and more into his heart.  In his eyes she was very beautiful; and his eyes, though partial, did not deceive him very greatly, for Mary’s face was fair to look upon.

We have said that Mr. Bacon was a kind-hearted cheerful-minded man.  And so he was; kind-hearted and cheerful, even though clouds were beginning to darken above him, and a sigh from the coming tempest was in the air.  Yet not so uniformly cheerful as of old, though never moody nor perverse in his tempers.  Of the change that was in progress, the change from prosperity to adversity, he did not seem to be painfully conscious.

Yes, there was something wrong about the affairs of old Mr. Bacon.  A habit indulged through many years, had acquired a dangerous influence over him, and was gradually destroying his rational ability to act well in the ordinary concerns of life.  As a young man, Mr. Bacon drank “temperately,” and he drank “temperately” in the prime of life; and now, at sixty, he continued to drink “temperately,” that is, in his own estimation.  There were many, however, who had reason to think differently.  But Mr. Bacon was no bar-room lounger; in fact, he rarely, if ever, went to a public house; it was in his own home and among his household treasures, that he placed to his lips the cup of confusion.

The various temperance reforms had all found warm advocates among his friends and neighbours; but Mr. Bacon stood aloof.  He would have nothing to do in these matters.

“Let them join temperance societies who feel themselves in danger,” was his good natured answer to all argument or persuasion addressed to him on the subject.

He did not oppose nor ridicule the movement.  He thought it a good thing; only, he had in it no personal interest.