of the world, of the wild, dangerous class, handsome and
talented, but lacking the balance wheel which magnetic temperaments
usually require. He was admired by both men and women to the point of
the danger line, for his schemes wrecked many a fortune and family,
ultimately losing him the confidence of all. "Thad" loved one of the
beautiful daughters of the Deerfield valley, and, despite the
protestations of friends and relatives, she married him, claiming she
could do what none thus far had been able to accomplish--reform him.
"Thad's" habits had not been curbed. Life was too gay for thoughts of
the sombre hereafter, and the sedate, sober counsel of the old men was
scorned, but their predictions were to be most cruelly fulfilled. Yet
there was that confiding love, that desire to accomplish miracles, which
swayed the fair young girl of the Deerfield hills to sacrifice herself
in the hope of reform. Oh, what a waste of time for any woman! What
debauchery of intellect, what a prostitution of a fair and beautiful
life; utter folly, deliberate social suicide, with its months and years
of anguish and debasement for the mere gratification of an impulse! To
be sure, there are some moments, comprising even days or months, when
happiness reigns, but do these few hours, which grow farther apart,
shorter and shorter, as time wears away, compensate for the millions of
silent, expectant moments during which the uncomplaining wife watches
for that unerring expression which never deceives her? Is there any
excuse a mother can give her daughter, budding into womanhood, for
bringing her into the world to face disgrace, possibly crime? Does a
son, born of such parents, have that respect and confidence toward
father and mother that he should?

Sue Paisley lived on that beautiful farm where Jack was born. She was on
a visit while "Thad" attended important business in the great cotton
markets of the South. She loved the brook that gurgled and splashed
along its course. Nodding bluebells coquetted with the tiny wave crests,
while the grass along the bank waved little blades in defiance at the
roar of its voice. Each summer Sue sang its praises to the tinkle of the
whetstone as the farm hand sharpened his scythe, tink, tink, tinkety
tink. When she married, she left the long rows of maple trees, the great
red barn, the stuffy parlor, the spare room with its high feather bed
and Dutch clock; the big round dining table with tilting top, blue and