Alas! how quickly began the realization of her worst fears in the corruption of her worshipped boy!  And how vain proved all effort and remonstrance, looking to his safety, whether made with himself or his father!  From the day the tavern was opened, and Frank drew into his lungs full draughts of the changed atmosphere by which he was now surrounded, the work of moral deterioration commenced.  The very smell of the liquor exhilarated him unnaturally; while the subjects of conversation, so new to him, that found discussion in the bar-room, soon came to occupy a prominent place in his imagination, to the exclusion of those humane, child-like, tender, and heavenly thoughts and impressions it had been the mother’s care to impart and awaken.  Ah! with what an eager zest does the heart drink in of evil.  And how almost hopeless is the case of a boy, surrounded, as Frank was, by the corrupting, debasing associations of a bar-room!  Had his father meditated his ruin, he could not have more surely laid his plans for the fearful consummation; and he reaped as he had sown.  With a selfish desire to get gain, he embarked in the trade of corruption, ruin, and death, weakly believing that he and his could pass through the fire harmless.  How sadly a few years demonstrated his error, we have seen.

Flora, I learned, was with her mother, devoting her life to her.  The dreadful death of Willy Hammond, for whom she had conceived a strong attachment, came near depriving her of reason also.  Since the day on which that awful tragedy occurred, she had never even looked upon her old home.  She went away with her unconscious mother, and ever since had remained with her—­devoting her life to her comfort.  Long before this, all her own and mother’s influence over her brother had come to an end.  It mattered not how she sought to stay his feet, so swiftly moving along the downward way, whether by gentle entreaty, earnest remonstrance, or tears; in either case, wounds for her own heart were the sure consequences, while his steps never lingered a moment.  A swift destiny seemed hurrying him on to ruin.  The change in her father—­once so tender, so cheerful in his tone, so proud of and loving toward his daughter—­was another source of deep grief to her pure young spirit.  Over him, as well as over her brother, all her power was lost; and he even avoided her, as though her presence were an offense to him.  And so, when she went out from her unhappy home, she took with her no desire to return.  Even when imagination bore her back to the “Sickle and Sheaf,” she felt an intense, heart-sickening repulsion toward the place where she had first felt the poisoned arrows of life; and in the depths of her spirit she prayed that her eyes might never look upon it again.  In her almost cloister-like seclusion, she sought to gather the mantle of oblivion about her heart.

Had not her mother’s condition made Flora’s duty a plain one, the true, unselfish instincts of her heart would have doubtless led her back to the polluted home she had left, there, in a kind of living death, to minister as best she could to the comfort of a debased father and brother.  But she was spared that trial—­that fruitless sacrifice.