see how it is in the home of the poor inebriate. We will pass by a
quick transition.

"Joe!" The thin white hand of Mrs. Morgan clasps the arm of her
husband, who has arisen up suddenly, and now stands by the partly
opened door. "Don't go out to-night, Joe. Please, don't go out."

"Father!" A feeble voice calls from the corner of an old settee,
where little Mary lies with her head bandaged.

"Well, I won't then!" is replied--not angrily, nor even fretfully
--but in a kind voice.

"Come and sit by me, father." How tenderly, yet how full of
concern is that low, sweet voice. "Come, won't you?"

"Yes, dear."

"Now hold my hand, father."

Joe takes the hand of little Mary, that instantly tightens upon
his.

"You won't go away and leave me to-night, will you, father? Say
you won't."

"How very hot your hand is, dear. Does your head ache?"

"A little; but it will soon feel better."