“Alice, my own dear sister!” he said, as her head sank upon his breast.  “The struggle is over.  I am free once more, and free for ever.  I have just signed a pledge of total-abstinence from all that can intoxicate—­a pledge that will remain perpetually in force.”

“And may our Father in Heaven help you to keep it, John,” the maiden murmured, in a low, fervent tone.

“I will die before it shall be violated,” was the stern response.

One year from that time, another bridal party assembled at the residence of Mr. Weston.  Helen long since recovered from the shock she had received, had again consented to be led to the altar, by John Barclay, whose life had been, since he signed the pledge, of the most unexceptionable character.  Indeed, almost his only fault in former times had been a fondness for drinking, and gay company.  Not much of boisterous mirth characterized the bridal party, for none felt like giving way to an exuberance of feeling,—­but there was, notwithstanding few could draw a veil entirely over the past, a rational conviction that true and permanent happiness must, and would crown that marriage union.  And thus far, it has followed it, and must continue to follow it, for John Barclay is a man of high-toned principle, and would as soon think of committing a highway robbery, as violating his pledge.

THE FAILING HOPE.

“SHALL I read to you, ma?” said Emma Martin, a little girl, eleven years of age, coming up to the side of her mother, who sat in a musing attitude by the centre-table, upon which the servant had just placed a light.

Mrs. Martin did not seem to hear the voice of her child; for she moved not, nor was there any change in the fixed, dreamy expression of her face.

“Ma,” repeated the child, after waiting for a few moments, laying, at the same time, her head gently upon her mother’s shoulder.

“What, dear?” Mrs. Martin asked, in a tender voice, rousing herself up.

“Shall I read to you, ma?” repeated the child.

“No—­yes, dear, you may read for me”—­the mother said, and her tones were low, with something mournful in their expression.

“What shall I read, ma?”

“Get the Bible, dear, and read to me from that good book,” replied Mrs. Martin.

“I love to read in the Bible,” Emma said, as she brought to the centre-table that sacred volume, and commenced turning over its pages.  She then read chapter after chapter, while the mother listened in deep attention, often lifting her heart upwards, and breathing a silent prayer.  At last Emma grew tired with reading, and closed the book.

“It is time for you to go to bed, dear,” Mrs. Martin observed, as the little girl showed signs of weariness.

“Kiss me, ma,” the child said, lifting her innocent face to that of her mother, and receiving the token of love she asked.  Then, breathing her gentle,