Morgan answered, and bent down his ear.

“You will only have mother left,” she said—­“only mother.  And she cries so much when you are away.”

“I won’t leave her, Mary, only when I go to work,” said Morgan, whispering back to the child.  “And I’ll never go out at night any more.”

“Yes; you promised me that.”

“And I’ll promise more.”

“What, father?”

“Never to go into a tavern again.”

“Never!”

“No, never.  And I’ll promise still more.”

“Father?”

“Never to drink a drop of liquor as long as I live.”

“Oh, father! dear, dear father!” And with a cry of joy Mary started up and flung herself upon his breast.  Morgan drew his arms tightly around her, and sat for a long time, with his lips pressed to her cheek—­while she lay against his bosom as still as death.  As death?  Yes:  for when the father unclasped his arms, the spirit of his child was with the angels of the resurrection!

It was my fourth evening in the bar-room of the ’Sickle and Sheaf’.  The company was not large, nor in very gay spirits.  All had heard of little Mary’s illness; which followed so quickly on the blow from the tumbler, that none hesitated about connecting the one with the other.  So regular had been the child’s visits, and so gently excited, yet powerful her influence over her father, that most of the frequenters at the ‘Sickle and Sheaf’ had felt for her a more than common interest; which the cruel treatment she received, and the subsequent illness, materially heightened.

“Joe Morgan hasn’t turned up this evening,” remarked some one.

“And isn’t likely to for a while” was answered.

“Why not?” inquired the first speaker.

“They say the man with the poker is after him.”

“Oh, dear that’s dreadful.  Its the second or third chase, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll be likely to catch him this time.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Poor devil!  It won’t be much matter.  His family will be a great deal better without him.”

“It will be a blessing to them if he dies.”

“Miserable, drunken wretch!” muttered Harvey Green who was present.  “He’s only in the way of everybody.  The sooner he’s off, the better.”

The landlord said nothing.  He stood leaning across the bar, looking more sober than usual.

“That was rather an unlucky affair of yours Simon.  They say the child is going to die.”

“Who says so?” Slade started, scowled and threw a quick glance upon the speaker.

“Doctor Green.”

“Nonsense!  Doctor Green never said any such thing.”

“Yes, he did though.”

“Who heard him?”

“I did.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“He wasn’t in earnest?” A slight paleness overspread the countenance of the landlord.  “He was, though.  They had an awful time there last night.”