gay
the quiet old parlor, and David learning to know his own boys and
girl, was astonished at their childish beauty and intelligence. Often
John could not bear to break up the pleasant evening time, and David
and he would sit softly talking in the firelight, with little John
musing quietly between them, and Flora asleep on her uncle's lap. Then
Jenny would come gently in and out and say tenderly, "Hadna the bairns
better come awa to their beds?" and the old man would answer, "Bide a
bit, Jenny, woman," for he thought every such hour was building up a
counter influence against the snare of strong drink.

But there is no voice in human nature that can say authoritatively,
"_Return!_" David felt all the sweet influences with which he was
surrounded, but, it must be admitted, they were sometimes an
irritation to him. His business troubles, and his disagreements with
his partner, were increasing rapidly; for Robert--whose hopes were set
on America--was urging him to close the mill before their liabilities
were any larger. He refused to believe longer in the future making
good what they had lost; and certainly it was uphill work for David to
struggle against accumulating bills, and a partner whose heart was not
with him.

One night at the close of the year, David did not come home to dinner,
and John and the children ate it alone. He was very anxious, and he
had not much heart to talk; but he kept the two eldest with him until
little Flora's head dropped, heavy with sleep, on his breast. Then a
sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he sent them, almost
hurriedly, away. He had scarcely done so when there was a shuffling
noise in the hall, the parlor-door was flung open with a jar, and
David staggered towards him--_drunk_!

In a moment, John's natural temper conquered him; he jumped to his
feet, and said passionately, "How daur ye, sir? Get out o' my house,
you sinfu' lad!" Then, with a great cry he smote his hands together
and bowed his head upon them, weeping slow, heavy drops, that came
each with a separate pang. His agony touched David, though he scarcely
comprehended it. Not all at once is the tender conscience seared, and
the tender heart hardened.

"Uncle," he said in a maudlin, hesitating way, which it would be a sin
to imitate--"Uncle John, I'm not drunk, I'm in trouble; I'm in
trouble, Uncle John. Don't cry about me. I'm not worth it."

Then he sank down upon the sofa, and, after a few more incoherent
apolo