us, that she dare not trust
her happiness in your keeping."

"And who has any right," he asked warmly, "to say that I am in the habit
of exceeding?"

"Do you deny yourself that it is so?" she inquired, looking steadily but
sorrowfully at him.

His eyes dropped before hers, and then he said,--

"I do not see that any one has a right to put such a question to me."

"Not a right!" exclaimed Mrs Oliphant. "Have not _I_ a right, dear
Frank, as Mary's mother, to put such a question? I know that I have no
right to turn inquisitor as regards your conduct and actions in general.
But oh, surely, when you know what has happened, when you remember your
repeated promises, and how, alas! they have been broken; when you call
to mind that Mary has expressly promised to me, and declared to you,
that she will never marry a drunkard,--can you think that I, the mother
whom God has appointed to guard the happiness of my darling daughter,
have no right to ask you whether or no you are free from that habit
which you cannot indulge in and at the same time honestly claim the hand
of my beloved child?"

Frank for a long time made no answer; when he did reply, he still evaded
the question.

"I have done wrong," he said; "grievously wrong. I acknowledge it. I
could ask Mary's pardon for it on my knees, and humble myself in the
dust before her. I _might_ plead, in part excuse, or, at any rate,
palliation of my fault, the heat of the weather and thirsty nature of
the work I was engaged in, which led me into excess before I was aware
of what I was doing. But I will not urge that. I will take every
blame. I will throw myself entirely on her mercy; and surely human
creatures should not be unmerciful since God is so merciful."

"I grieve, dear Frank, to hear you speak in this way," said Mrs
Oliphant, very gravely and sadly; "you should go on your knees and
humble yourself in the dust, not before poor sinners, such as I and my
child are, but before Him who alone can pardon your sin. I think you
are deceiving yourself. I fear so. It is not that Mary is void of
pity. She does not take upon herself to condemn you--it is not her
province; but that does not make her feel that she can look upon you as
one who could really make her happy. Alas! it is one of the miserable
things connected with the drink, that those who have become its slaves
cannot be trusted. I may seem to speak harshly, but I _must_ speak out.
Your expressions of sorro