she uttered a wild
cry, shut the door violently, and rushed upstairs. I had seen enough in
her face: too much, too much! And the little child, our darling little
Mary, what was amiss with her? Could it be? Had that cruel woman dared
to do such a thing? Yes: it was so indeed: the little child was under
the influence of strong drink; I drew the horrible truth from her by
degrees. The mother had taught that little babe to like the exciting
cup; she had sweetened and made it specially palatable. She had done
this to make the child a willing partaker in her sin, to bribe her to
secrecy, and to use her as a tool for the gratifying of her own vile
appetite. Thus was she deliberately poisoning the body and soul of her
child, and training her in deceit, that she might league that little
one, as she grew up, with herself in procuring the forbidden stimulant,
and in deceiving her own father. O accursed drink, which can thus turn
a mother into the tempter and destroyer of her own guileless and
unsuspecting child! I rushed out of the room, and was about to hurry
upstairs, but I shrank back shivering and heart-sick. Then I went up
slowly and heavily: my bedroom door was bolted; so was the door of my
wife's dressing-room; I came downstairs again, and, taking Mary by the
hand, went into my library. There the storm of trouble did its work,
for it drove me down upon my knees. I poured out my heart in strong
crying to God; I owned that I had lived without Him, and that I had not
loved nor sought Him. I prayed for pardon and a new heart, and that He
would have mercy on my poor wife and child. As I knelt in my agony of
supplication I felt two little hands placed on my own, then mine were
gently pulled from me, and my precious little child, looking up in my
face with streaming eyes, said, `Papa, don't cry; dear papa, don't cry.
I _will_ be a good girl.' I pressed her to my heart, and blessed God
that it was not yet too late. Before nightfall I had driven away with
that dear child, and had placed her with a valued friend whom I could
trust, one of the few who had ever visited at our house, a total
abstainer, and, better still, a devoted Christian. My child had always
loved her, and I felt that I could leave her in such hands with the
utmost confidence. But I had a home still, in name at least, for all
the sunshine had gone out of the word `home' for me. I returned the
next day to our childless house: where was the mother?