"I won't go there to-night, dear. So let your heart be at rest."
Mary's lids unclose, and two round drops, released from their
clasp, glide slowly over her face.
"Thank you, father--thank you. Mother will be so glad."
The eyes closed again; and the father moved uneasily. His heart is
touched. There is a struggle within him. It is on his lips to say
that he will never drink at the "Sickle and Sheaf" again; but
resolution just lacks the force of utterance.
"Father!"
"Well, dear?"
"I don't, think I'll be well enough to go out in two or three
days. You know the doctor said that I would have to keep very
still, for I had a great deal of fever."
"Yes, poor child."
"Now, won't you promise me one thing?"
"What is it, dear?"
"Not to go out in the evening until I get well."
Joe Morgan hesitated.
"Just promise me that, father. It won't be long; I shall be up
again in a little while."
How well the father knows what is in the heart of his child. Her
fears are all for him. Who is to go up after her poor father, and
lead him home when the darkness of inebriety is on his spirit, and
external perception so dulled that not skill enough remains to
shun the harm that lies in his path?
"Do promise just that, father, dear."
He cannot resist the pleading voice and look. "I promise it, Mary;
so shut your eyes now and go to sleep. I'm afraid this fever will
increase."
"Oh! I'm so glad--so glad!"
Mary does not clasp her hands, nor show strong external signs of
pleasure; but how full of a pure, unselfish joy is that low-
murmured ejaculation, spoken in the depths of her spirit, as well
as syllabled by her tongue!
Mrs.
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