As the father had predicted, Logan added, in the course of a year or two, dissipation to idle habits and neglect of his wife to both.  They had gone to housekeeping in a small way, when first married, and had lived comfortably enough for some time.  But Logan did not like work, and made every excuse he could find to take a holiday, or be absent from the shop.  The effect of this was, an insufficient income.  Debt came with its mortifying and (sic) harrassing accompaniments, and furniture had to be sold to pay those who were not disposed to wait.  With two little children, Fanny was removed by her husband into a cheap boarding-house, after their things were taken and sold.  The company into which she was here thrown, was far from being agreeable; but this would have been no source of unhappiness in itself.  Cheerfully would she have breathed the uncongenial atmosphere, if there had been nothing in the conduct of her husband to awaken feelings of anxiety.  But, alas! there was much to create unhappiness here.  Idle days were more frequent; and the consequences of idle days more and more serious.  From his work, he would come home sober and cheerful; but after spending a day in idle company, or in the woods gunning, a sport of which he was fond, he would meet his wife with a sullen, dissatisfied aspect, and, too often, in a state little above intoxication.

“I’m afraid thy son-in-law is not doing very well, friend Crawford,” said a plain-spoken Quaker to the father of Mrs. Logan, after the young man’s habits began to show themselves too plainly in his appearance.

Mr. Crawford knit his brows, and drew his lips closely together.

“Has thee seen young Logan lately?”

“I don’t know the young man,” replied Mr. Crawford, with an impatient motion of his head.

“Don’t know thy own son-in-law!  The husband of thy daughter!”

“I have no son-in-law!  No daughter!” said Crawford, with stern emphasis.

“Frances was the daughter of thy wedded wife, friend Crawford.”

“But I have disowned her.  I forewarned her of the consequences if she married that young man.  I told her that I would cast her off for ever; and I have done it.”

“But, friend Crawford, thee has done wrong.”

“I’ve said it, and I’ll stick to it.”

“But thee has done wrong, friend Crawford,” repeated the Quaker.

“Right or wrong, it is done, and I will not recall the act.  I gave her fair warning; but she took her own course, and now she must abide the consequences.  When I say a thing, I mean it; I never eat my words.”

“Friend Crawford,” said the Quaker, in a steady voice and with his calm eyes fixed upon the face of the man he addressed.  “Thee was wrong to say what thee did.  Thee had no right to cast off thy child.  I saw her to-day, passing slowly along the street.  Her dress was thin and faded; but not so thin and faded as her pale, young face.  Ah! if thee could have seen the sadness of that countenance.  Friend Crawford! she is thy child still.  Thee cannot disown her.”