While Mr. Lyon was giving me the brief history just recorded, I noticed a little incident that caused a troubled feeling to pervade my mind.  After a man, for whom the landlord’s son had prepared a fancy drink, had nearly emptied his glass, he set it down upon the counter and went out.  A tablespoonful or two remained in the glass, and I noticed Frank, after smelling at it two or three times, put the glass to his lips and sip the sweetened liquor.  The flavor proved agreeable; for, after tasting it, he raised the glass again and drained every drop.

“Frank!” I heard a low voice, in a warning tone, pronounce the name, and glancing toward a door partly open, that led from the inside of the bar to the yard, I saw the face of Mrs. Slade.  It had the same troubled expression I had noticed before, but now blended with anxiety.

The boy went out at the call of his mother; and when a new customer entered, I noticed that Flora, the daughter, came in to wait upon him.  I noticed, too, that while she poured out the liquor, there was a heightened color on her face, in which I fancied that I saw a tinge of shame.  It is certain that she was not in the least gracious to the person on whom she was waiting; and that there was little heart in her manner of performing the task.

Ten o’clock found me alone and musing in the barroom over the occurrences of the evening.  Of all the incidents, that of the entrance of Joe Morgan’s child kept the most prominent place in my thoughts.  The picture of that mournful little face was ever before me; and I seemed all the while to hear the word “Father,” uttered so touchingly, and yet with such a world of childish tenderness.  And the man, who would have opposed the most stubborn resistance to his fellow-men, had they sought to force him from the room, going passively, almost meekly out, led by that little child—­I could not, for a time, turn my thoughts from the image thereof!  And then thought bore me to the wretched home, back to which the gentle, loving child had taken her father, and my heart grew faint in me as imagination busied itself with all the misery there.

And Willy Hammond.  The little that I had heard and seen of him greatly interested me in his favor.  Ah! upon what dangerous ground was he treading.  How many pitfalls awaited his feet—­how near they were to the brink of a fearful precipice, down which to fall was certain destruction.  How beautiful had been his life-promise!  How fair the opening day of his existence!  Alas! the clouds were gathering already, and the low rumble of the distant thunder presaged the coming of a fearful tempest.  Was there none to warn him of the danger?  Alas! all might now come too late, for so few who enter the path in which his steps were treading will hearken to friendly counsel, or heed the solemn warning.  Where was he now?  This question recurred over and over again.  He had left the bar-room with Judge Lyman and Green early in the evening, and had not made his appearance since.  Who and what was Green?  And Judge Lyman, was he a man of principle?  One with whom it was safe to trust a youth like Willy Hammond?