“This is dreadful—­dreadful!  Where will it end?  What is to be done?”

Fanny suppresses a sob, as she thus gives vent to her troubled feelings.  Twice, already, has her husband been seized with the drunkard’s madness; and, in the nervous prostration consequent upon even a brief withdrawal of his usual strong stimulants, she sees the fearful precursor of another attack of this dreadful and dangerous malady.  In the hope of supplying the needed tone she has given him strong coffee; and this for the time, produces the effect desired.  The restlessness is allayed, and a quiet state of body and mind succeeds.  It needs but a suggestion to induce him to retire for the night.  After being a few minutes in bed, sleep steals over him, and his heavy breathing tells that he is in the world of dreams.

And now there comes a tap at the door.

“Come in,” is answered.

The latch is lifted, the door swings open, and a woman enters.

“Mrs. Slade!  “The name is uttered in a tone of surprise.

“Fanny, how are you this evening?” Kindly, yet half sadly, the words are said.

“Tolerable, I thank you.”

The hands of the two women are clasped, and for a few moments they gaze into each other’s face.  What a world of tender commiseration is in that of Mrs. Slade!

“How is little Mary to-night?”

“Not so well, I’m afraid.  She has a good deal of fever.”

“Indeed!  Oh, I’m sorry!  Poor child! what a dreadful thing it was!  Oh!  Fanny! you don’t know how it has troubled me.  I’ve been intending to come around all day to see how she was, but couldn’t get off until now.”

“It came near killing her,” said Mrs. Morgan.

“It’s in God’s mercy she escaped.  The thought of it curdles the very blood in my veins.  Poor child! is this her on the settee?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Slade takes a chair, and sitting by the sleeping child, gazes long upon her pale sweet face.  Now the lips of Mary part—­words are murmured—­what is she saying?

“No, no, mother; I can’t go to bed yet.  Father isn’t home.  And it’s so dark.  There’s no one to lead him over the bridge.  I’m not afraid.  Don’t—­don’t cry so, mother—­I’m not afraid!  Nothing will hurt me.”

The child’s face flushes.  She moans, and throws her arms about uneasily.  Hark again.

“I wish Mr. Slade wouldn’t look so cross at me.  He never did when I went to the mill.  He doesn’t take me on his knee now, and stroke my hair.  Oh, dear!  I wish father wouldn’t go there any more.  Don’t, don’t, Mr. Slade.  Oh! oh!”—­the ejaculation prolonged into a frightened cry, “My head! my head!”

A few choking sobs are followed by low moans; and then the child breathes easily again.  But the flush does not leave her cheek; and when Mrs. Slade, from whose eyes the tears come forth drop by drop, and roll down her face, touches it lightly, she finds it hot with fever.