“O, pa, indeed I do love you!”

“And I love you, my child,” Mr. Martin responded, bending over her and kissing her forehead, cheeks, and lips, with an earnest fondness.

“And don’t you love ma, too?” inquired Emma.

“Certainly I do, my dear!  Why do you ask me?”

“Because I see her crying so often—­almost every day.  And she seems so troubled just before you come home, every evening.  She didn’t use to be so.  A good while ago, she used to be always talking about when pa would be home; and used to dress me up every afternoon to see you.  But now she never says anything about your coming home at night.  Don’t you know how we used to walk out and meet you sometimes?  We never do it now!”

This innocent appeal was like an arrow piercing him with the most acute pain.  He could not find words in which to fame a reply.  Simply kissing her again, and bidding her a tender good-night, he turned away and left her chamber, feeling more wretched than he had ever felt in his life.

It was about twelve years since the wife of Mr. Martin had united her hopes and affections with his.  At that time he was esteemed by all—­a strictly temperate man, although he would drink with a friend, or at a convivial party, whenever circumstances led him to do so.  From this kind of indulgence the appetite for liquor was formed.  Two years after his marriage, Martin had become so fond of drinking, that he took from two to three glasses every day, regularly.  Brandy at dinner-time was indispensable.  The meal would have seemed to him wanting in a principal article without it.  It was not until about five years after their marriage that Mrs. Martin was aroused to a distinct consciousness of danger.  Her husband came home so much intoxicated as to be scarcely able to get up into his chamber.  Then she remembered, but too vividly, the slow, but sure progress he had been making towards intemperance, during the past two or three years, and her heart sunk trembling in her bosom with a new and awful fear.  It seemed as if she had suddenly awakened from a delusive dream of happiness and security, to find herself standing at the brink of a fearful precipice.

“What can I do?  What shall I do?” were questions repeated over and over again; but, alas! she could find no answer upon which her troubled heart could repose with confidence.  How could she approach her husband upon such a subject?  She felt that she could not allude to it.

Month after month, and year after year, she watched with an anguish of spirit that paled her cheek, and stole away the brightness from her eye, the slow, but sure progress of the destroyer.  Alas! how did hope fail—­fail—­fail, until it lived in her bosom but a faint, feeble, flickering ray.  At last she ventured to remonstrate, and met with anger and repulse.  When this subsided, and her husband began to reflect more deeply upon his course, he was humbled in spirit, and sought to heal the wound his conduct and his words had made.  Then came promises of amendment, and Mrs. Martin fondly hoped all would be well again.  The light again came back to her heart.  But it did not long remain.  Martin still permitted himself to indulge in wine, which soon excited the desire for stronger stimulants, and he again indulged, and again fell.