ly wailing but for a morsel of
that bread of life without which even the footsteps of the self-reliant,
the strong and brave of heart, faint and falter by the way, and she had
cruelly denied them that precious nutriment; she had given them life,
but had robbed them of all that makes life endurable. Life's duties
unfulfilled, life's high and holy aims trampled under the foot of
sensual indulgence, living to blight instead of to bless! O woman, wife,
and mother, thy life when lived aright a crucifixion of the flesh, a
sublime self-sacrifice--not for thee the pleasures of sense and time,
not for thee may peal earth's songs of triumph! Fainting oft beneath the
burden of the cross, we trace thy way by bloody footprints, suffering as
a saint;--falling from thy estate, how terrible will be thy retribution
as a sinner!

Hark! There is the patter of little feet ascending the staircase, coming
down the long upper hall. To the repentant mother's ears what music so
sweet as that? She listens breathlessly. Was it thought of her that had
impelled them thither? Would they approach her room? Since she had grown
more and more repulsive day by day, since those fits of drunken passion
had become a thing of fearful frequency, and those little ones had
suffered from their violence, and learned to fear her, they had come but
seldom--never alone; but they are approaching now, shyly, hesitatingly,
as if afraid to come, but still approaching--pausing at the very
threshold. The burning tears force their way through the clenched
fingers--the sound of the little feet has given her power to pray.
Though angels fail in the work of redemption, there may yet be power in
the little hands to hold her back. She does not rise to open the door,
but sits choking down her sobs, and listening to the turning, twisting,
shaking of the door knob, to a dozen failures in unskilful attempts to
enter, every movement of the little hand sending a strange thrill of
mingled pain and pleasure through the overburdened heart.

It opens at last, and Harry stands upon the threshold, looking timidly
in. Ah! no maudlin sorrow, no senseless, idiotic mirth, no disgusting
stupor disfigures the face on which he gazes. Its depth of hopeless,
despairing tenderness, so eloquently accompanied by the pathetic
movement of the outstretched hands, almost frightens him by its
intensity; but, in obedience to the motion, he comes forward,
half-fearfully proffering the flower he holds in his