The captain acknowledged that his friend had a right view of the matter, and, as he bade him good-day, promised to take care of his vote at the coming election.

We doubt whether any man ever felt more deeply sensible of the wrong committed than did James, as he, the next morning, awaking from his long sleep, beheld his wife standing at his side, now weeping over him, now joyous and smiling at his returned consciousness, and closely attentive to his every want.  He felt himself unworthy of such kindness, and for the first time in his life saw the evil of the doctrine he had all his lifetime advocated, namely, that a man can drink enough and not too much; in other words, that he can guide his evil passions as he will, and command them to stop in their course, nor trespass on forbidden ground.

But James even yet was opposed to the pledge, and, though George presented it with strong arguments, he refused to sign it, and laughed at the idea of his ever getting the worse for liquor again.

The employer of James Clifton had his name on the same ticket with that of the rumseller before mentioned, as a candidate for mayor.  Election-day came.  The two political parties had their tickets in the hands of scores of distributors.  There was a third party, with its ticket, the caption of which-"Temperance Men and Temperance Measures"-was bandied about with gibes and sneers by the prominent men of both other parties.

Among the vote-distributors was a young man of exceedingly prepossessing appearance, and who, by means of the winning manner he possessed, disposed of a large number of tickets, even to men of the opposing party.  “Vote for Laneville! vote for Laneville!” was his constant cry, save when he, in well-chosen words, proclaimed the ability and worthiness of his candidate.  Some said he was urged on by selfish motives; that, as he was a clerk of Laneville’s, the election of that candidate would be much to his pecuniary benefit.  But James Clifton cared for none of these insinuations.

“Well, deacon, my dear, dear deacon, who do you vote for?” inquired a stanch teetotaller, as an old gentleman approached.  The person addressed, after a little hesitation, during which a few nervous twinges of the mouth betrayed his nervousness of conscience, and the debate going on in his heart between consistency and principles on the one side, and party names and measures on the other, replied, “Well, well,"-then a pause,—­“well, I don’t know; go for the best man, I s’pose.”

“Here’s the ticket, sir! the best man, sir, is Laneville! vote for Laneville!” shouted James, as he thrust his ticket into the hands of the old gentleman, and, laying hold of his arm, led him into the room, and saw him deposit the vote of a temperance advocate for a rumseller!  James laughed well over his victory, while the distributors of the temperance tickets felt somewhat ill at ease in seeing him whom they thought their truest friend desert them in the hour of need, and give his vote and influence for the other party.