Evening found me once more in the bar-room of the “Sickle and Sheaf.”  The sleepy, indifferent bar-keeper, was now more in his element—­looked brighter, and had quicker motions.  Slade, who had partially recovered from the stupefying effects of the heavy draughts of ale with which he washed down his dinner, was also in a better condition, though not inclined to talk.  He was sitting at a table, alone, with his eyes wandering about the room.  Whether his thoughts were agreeable or disagreeable, it was not easy to determine.  Frank was there, the centre of a noisy group of coarse fellows, whose vulgar sayings and profane expletives continually rung through the room.  The noisiest, coarsest, and most profane was Frank Slade; yet did not the incessant volume of bad language that flowed from his tongue appear in the least to disturb his father.

Outraged, at length, by this disgusting exhibition, that had not even the excuse of an exciting cause, I was leaving the bar-room, when I heard some one remark to a young man who had just come in:  “What! you here again, Ned?  Ain’t you afraid your old man will be after you, as usual?”

“No,” answered the person addressed, chuckling inwardly, “he’s gone to a prayer-meeting.”

“You’ll at least have the benefit of his prayers,” was lightly remarked.

I turned to observe the young man more closely.  His face I remembered, though I could not identify him at first.  But, when I heard him addressed soon after as Ned Hargrove, I had a vivid recollection of a little incident that occurred some years before, and which then made a strong impression.  The reader has hardly forgotten the visit of Mr. Hargrove to the bar-room of the “Sickle and Sheaf,” and the conversation among some of its inmates, which his withdrawal, in company with his son, then occasioned.  The father’s watchfulness over his boy, and his efforts to save him from the allurements and temptations of a bar-room, had proved, as now appeared, unavailing.  The son was several years older; but it was sadly evident, from the expression of his face, that he had been growing older in evil faster than in years.

The few words that I have mentioned as passing between this young man and another inmate of the bar-room, caused me to turn back from the door, through which I was about passing, and take a chair near to where Hargrove had seated himself.  As I did so, the eyes of Simon Slade rested on the last-named individual.

“Ned Hargrove!” he said, speaking roughly—­“if you want a drink, you’d better get it, and make yourself scarce.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” retorted the young man, “you’ll get your money for the drink in good time.”

This irritated the landlord, who swore at Hargrove violently, and said something about not wanting boys about his place who couldn’t stir from home without having “daddy or mammy running after them.”

“Never fear!” cried out the person who had first addressed Hargrove—­“his old man’s gone to a prayer-meeting.  We shan’t have the light of his pious countenance here to-night.”