“I don’t, think I’ll be well enough to go out in two or three days.  You know the doctor said that I would have to keep very still, for I had a great deal of fever.”

“Yes, poor child.”

“Now, won’t you promise me one thing?”

“What is it, dear?”

“Not to go out in the evening until I get well.”

Joe Morgan hesitated.

“Just promise me that, father.  It won’t be long; I shall be up again in a little while.”

How well the father knows what is in the heart of his child.  Her fears are all for him.  Who is to go up after her poor father, and lead him home when the darkness of inebriety is on his spirit, and external perception so dulled that not skill enough remains to shun the harm that lies in his path?

“Do promise just that, father, dear.”

He cannot resist the pleading voice and look.  “I promise it, Mary; so shut your eyes now and go to sleep.  I’m afraid this fever will increase.”

“Oh!  I’m so glad—­so glad!”

Mary does not clasp her hands, nor show strong external signs of pleasure; but how full of a pure, unselfish joy is that low-murmured ejaculation, spoken in the depths of her spirit, as well as syllabled by her tongue!

Mrs. Morgan has been no unconcerned witness of all this; but knowing the child’s influence over her father, she has not ventured a word.  More was to be gained, she was sure, by silence on her part; and so she kept silent.  Now she comes nearer to them, and says, as she lets a hand rest on the shoulder of her husband: 

“You feel better for that promise already; I know you do.”

He looks up to her, and smiles faintly.  He does feel better, but is hardly willing to acknowledge it.

Soon after Mary is sleeping.  It does not escape the observation of Mrs. Morgan that her husband grows restless; for he gets up suddenly, every now and then, and walks quickly across the room, as if in search of something.  Then sits down, listlessly—­sighs—­ stretches himself, and says, “Oh dear!” What shall she do for him?  How is the want of his accustomed evening stimulus to be met?  She thinks, and questions, and grieves inwardly.  Poor Joe Morgan!  His wife understands his case, and pities him from her heart.  But what can she do?  Go out and get him something to drink?  “Oh, no! no! no! never!” She answered the thought audibly almost, in the excitement of her feelings.  An hour has passed—­Joe’s restlessness has increased instead of diminishing.  What is to be done?  Now Mrs. Morgan has left the room.  She has resolved upon something, for the case must be met.  Ah! here she comes, after an absence of five minutes, bearing in her hand a cup of strong coffee.

“It was kind and thoughtful in you, Fanny,” says Morgan, as with a gratified look he takes the cup.  But his hand trembles, and he spills a portion of the contents as ho tries to raise it to his lips.  How dreadfully his nerves are shattered!  Unnatural stimulants have been applied so long, that all true vitality seems lost.  And now the hand of his wife is holding the cup to his lips, and he drinks eagerly.