I looked at Simon Slade; his eyes rested on mine for a moment or two, and then sunk beneath my earnest gaze.  I saw that his countenance flushed, and that his motions were slightly confused.  The incident, it was plain, did not awaken agreeable thoughts.  Once I saw his hand move toward the sixpence that lay upon the counter; but whether to push it back or draw it toward the till, I could not determine.  The whisky-punch was in due time ready, and with it the man retired to a table across the room, and sat down to enjoy the tempting beverage.  As he did so, the landlord quietly swept the poor unfortunate’s last sixpence into his drawer.  The influence of this strong potation was to render the man a little more talkative.  To the free conversation passing around him he lent an attentive ear, dropping in a word, now and then, that always told upon the company like a well-directed blow.  At last, Slade lost all patience with him, and said, a little fretfully: 

“Look here, Joe Morgan, if you will be ill-natured, pray go somewhere else, and not interrupt good feeling among gentlemen.”

“Got my last sixpence,” retorted Joe, turning his pockets inside-out again.  “No more use for me here to-night.  That’s the way of the world.  How apt a scholar is our good friend Dustycoat, in this new school!  Well, he was a good miller—­no one ever disputed that —­and it’s plain to see that he is going to make a good landlord.  I thought his heart was a little too soft; but the indurating process has begun, and, in less than ten years, if it isn’t as hard as one of his old mill-stones, Joe Morgan is no prophet.  Oh, you needn’t knit your brows so, friend Simon, we’re old friends; and friends are privileged to speak plain.”

“I wish you’d go home.  You’re not yourself tonight,” said the landlord, a little coaxingly, for he saw that nothing was to be gained by quarreling with Morgan.  “Maybe my heart is growing harder,” he added, with affected good-humor; “and it is time, perhaps.  One of my weaknesses, I have heard even you say, was being too woman-hearted.”

“No danger of that now,” retorted Joe Morgan.  “I’ve known a good many landlords in my time, but can’t remember one that was troubled with the disease that once afflicted you.”

Just at this moment the outer door was pushed open with a slow, hesitating motion; then a little pale face peered in, and a pair of soft blue eyes went searching about the room.  Conversation was instantly hushed, and every face, excited with interest, turned toward the child, who had now stepped through the door.  She was not over ten years of age; but it moved the heart to look upon the saddened expression of her young countenance, and the forced bravery therein, that scarcely overcame the native timidity so touchingly visible.

“Father!” I have never heard this word spoken in a voice that sent such a thrill along every nerve.  It was full of sorrowful love—­ full of a tender concern that had its origin too deep for the heart of a child.  As she spoke, the little one sprang across the room, and laying her hands upon the arm of Joe Morgan, lifted her eyes, that were ready to gush over with tears, to his face.