“I don’t wish any thing to eat,” replied the child, in a faint voice.

“Oh, yes; come and get something.”

“Let her alone!” growls the father.  “I never humor sulky children.  She doesn’t deserve any supper.”

The mother sighs.  While the husband eats greedily, consuming, himself, more than half that is on the table, she takes but a few mouthfuls, and swallows them with difficulty.

After supper, Willy, who is just thirteen, and who has already been bound out as an apprentice to a trade, comes home.  He has a tale of suffering to tell.  For some fault his master has beaten him until the large purple welts lie in meshes across his back from his shoulders to his hips.

“How comes all this?” asks Mr. Warren.  There is not the smallest sign of sympathy in his voice.

Willy relates the cause, and tells it truly.  He was something to blame, but his fault needed not the correction of stripes even lightly applied.

“Served you right!” said the father, when the story was ended.  “No business to have acted so.  Do as you are told, and mind your work, and you’ll escape flogging.  Otherwise, I don’t care how often you get it.  You’ve been spoiled at home, and it’ll do you good to toe the mark.  Did your master know you were coming home to-night?”

“No, sir,” replied the boy, with trembling lips, and a choking voice.

“Then what did you come for?  To get pitied?  Do right and you’ll need no pity.”

“Oh, James, don’t speak so to the child!” said Mrs. Warren, unable to keep silence.

This was answered by an angry look.

“You must go back to your master, boy,” said the father, after a pause.  “When you wish to come home, ask his consent.”

“He doesn’t object to my coming home,” said Willy, his voice still quivering.

“Go back, I tell you!  Take your hat, there, and go back.  Don’t come here any more with your tales!”

The boy glanced towards his mother, and read pity and sympathy in her countenance, but she did not countermand the order; for she knew that if she did so, a scene of violence would follow.

“Ask to come home in the morning,” said she to her boy, as she held his hand tightly in hers at the door.  He gave her a look of tender thankfulness, and then went forth into the darkness, feeling so sad and wretched that he could not repress his tears.

Seven years.  And was only this time required to effect such a change!  Ah! rum is a demon!  How quickly does it transform the tender husband and parent into a cruel beast!  Look upon these two pictures, ye who tarry long at the wine!  Look at them, but do not say they are overdrawn!  They have in them only the sober hues and subdued colors of truth.

BRANDY AS A PREVENTIVE.

The cholera had made its appearance in New York, and many deaths were occurring daily.  Among those who weakly permitted themselves to feel an alarm amounting almost to terror, was a Mr. Hobart, who, from the moment the disease manifested itself, became infested with the idea that he would be one of its victims.