tered not how she sought to stay his feet, so swiftly moving
along the downward way, whether by gentle entreaty, earnest
remonstrance, or tears; in either case, wounds for her own heart were
the sure consequences, while his steps never lingered a moment. A swift
destiny seemed hurrying him on to ruin. The change in her father--once
so tender, so cheerful in his tone, so proud of and loving toward his
daughter--was another source of deep grief to her pure young spirit.
Over him, as well as over her brother, all her power was lost; and he
even avoided her, as though her presence were an offense to him. And
so, when she went out from her unhappy home, she took with her no
desire to return. Even when imagination bore her back to the "Sickle
and Sheaf," she felt an intense, heart-sickening repulsion toward the
place where she had first felt the poisoned arrows of life; and in the
depths of her spirit she prayed that her eyes might never look upon it
again. In her almost cloister-like seclusion, she sought to gather the
mantle of oblivion about her heart.

Had not her mother's condition made Flora's duty a plain one, the true,
unselfish instincts of her heart would have doubtless led her back to
the polluted home she had left, there, in a kind of living death, to
minister as best she could to the comfort of a debased father and
brother. But she was spared that trial--that fruitless sacrifice.

Evening found me once more in the bar-room of the "Sickle and Sheaf."
The sleepy, indifferent bar-keeper, was now more in his element--looked
brighter, and had quicker motions. Slade, who had partially recovered
from the stupefying effects of the heavy draughts of ale with which he
washed down his dinner, was also in a better condition, though not
inclined to talk. He was sitting at a table, alone, with his eyes
wandering about the room. Whether his thoughts were agreeable or
disagreeable, it was not easy to determine. Frank was there, the centre
of a noisy group of coarse fellows, whose vulgar sayings and profane
expletives continually rung through the room. The noisiest, coarsest,
and most profane was Frank Slade; yet did not the incessant volume of
bad language that flowed from his tongue appear in the least to disturb
his father.

Outraged, at length, by this disgusting exhibition, that had not even
the excuse of an exciting cause, I was leaving the bar-room, when I
heard some one remark to a young man who had just come in: "What!