beautiful woman. In her alone, of all that appertained to Simon
Slade, there was no deterioration. Her eyes were as mild and pure
as when first I met her at gentle sixteen, and her father said "My
daughter," with such a mingling of pride and affection in his
tone. She passed near where I was sitting, and entered the house.
A closer view showed me some marks of thought and suffering; but
they only heightened the attraction of her face. I failed not to
observe the air of respect with which all returned her slight nod
and smile of recognition.

"She's a nice girl, and no mistake--the flower of this flock," was
said, as soon as she passed into the house.

"Too good for Willy Hammond, in my opinion," said Matthew. "Clever
and generous as people call him."

"Just my opinion," was responded. "She's as pure and good, almost,
as an angel; and he?--I can tell you what--he's not the clean
thing. He knows a little too much of the world--on its bad side, I
mean."

The appearance of Slade put an end to this conversation. A second
observation of his person and countenance did not remove the first
unfavorable impression. His face had grown decidedly bad in
expression, as well as gross and sensual. The odor of his breath,
as he took a chair close to where I was sitting, was that of one
who drank habitually and freely; and the red, swimming eyes
evidenced, too surely, a rapid progress toward the sad condition
of a confirmed inebriate. There was, too, a certain thickness of
speech, that gave another corroborating sign of evil progress.