“Better that he were dead and out of the way.”

“Better a thousand times,” answered Slade.  “If he’d only fall down some night and break his neck, it would be a blessing to his family.”

“And to you in particular,” laughed Green.

“You may be sure it wouldn’t cost me a large sum for mourning,” was the unfeeling response.

Let us leave the bar-room of the “Sickle and Sheaf,” and its cold-hearted inmates, and look in upon the family of Joe Morgan, and see how it is in the home of the poor inebriate.  We will pass by a quick transition.

“Joe!” The thin white hand of Mrs. Morgan clasps the arm of her husband, who has arisen up suddenly, and now stands by the partly opened door.  “Don’t go out to-night, Joe.  Please, don’t go out.”

“Father!” A feeble voice calls from the corner of an old settee, where little Mary lies with her head bandaged.

“Well, I won’t then!” is replied—­not angrily, nor even fretfully —­but in a kind voice.

“Come and sit by me, father.”  How tenderly, yet how full of concern is that low, sweet voice.  “Come, won’t you?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Now hold my hand, father.”

Joe takes the hand of little Mary, that instantly tightens upon his.

“You won’t go away and leave me to-night, will you, father?  Say you won’t.”

“How very hot your hand is, dear.  Does your head ache?”

“A little; but it will soon feel better.”

Up into the swollen and disfigured face of the fallen father, the large, earnest blue eyes of the child are raised.  She does not see the marred lineaments; but only the beloved countenance of her parent.

“Dear father!”

“What, love?”

“I wish you’d promise me something.”

“What, dear?”

“Will you promise?”

“I can’t say until I hear your request.  If I can promise, I will.”

“Oh, you can promise—­you can, father!”

How the large blue eyes dance and sparkle!

“What is it, love?”

“That you will never go into Simon Slade’s bar any more.”

The child raises herself, evidently with a painful effort; and leans nearer to her father.

Joe shakes his head, and poor Mary drops back upon her pillow with a sigh.  Her lids fall, and the long lashes lie strongly relieved on her colorless cheeks.

“I won’t go there to-night, dear.  So let your heart be at rest.”

Mary’s lids unclose, and two round drops, released from their clasp, glide slowly over her face.

“Thank you, father—­thank you.  Mother will be so glad.”

The eyes closed again; and the father moved uneasily.  His heart is touched.  There is a struggle within him.  It is on his lips to say that he will never drink at the “Sickle and Sheaf” again; but resolution just lacks the force of utterance.

“Father!”

“Well, dear?”