to eat, Joe," said Mary, in a sympathetic tone.

"No thankee, lass; I need sleep more than meat just now."

"A glass of beer, then," urged Mary, sweeping the soap suds off her
pretty arms and hands, and taking up a towel.

The fireman shook his head, as he divested himself of his coat and
neckcloth.

"Do, Joe," entreated Mary; "I'm sure it will do you good, and no one
could say that you broke through your principles, considerin' the
condition you're in."

Foolish Mary! she was young and inexperienced, and knew not the danger
of tempting her husband to drink. She only knew that hundreds of
first-rate, sober, good, trustworthy men took a glass of beer now and
then without any evil result following, and did not think that her Joe
ran the slightest risk in doing the same. But Joe knew his danger. His
father had died a drunkard. He had listened to earnest men while they
told of the bitter curse that drinking had been to thousands, that to
some extent the tendency to drink was hereditary, and that, however safe
some natures might be while moderately indulging, there were other
natures to which moderate drinking was equivalent to getting on those
rails which, running down a slight incline at first--almost a level--
gradually pass over a steep descent, where brakes become powerless, and
end at last in total destruction.

"I don't require beer, Molly," said Dashwood with a smile, as he retired
into the large closet; "at my time o' life a man must be a miserable,
half-alive sort o' critter, if he can't git along without Dutch courage.
The sight o' your face and May's there, is better than a stiff glass o'
grog to me any day. It makes me feel stronger than the stoutest man in
the brigade. Good night, lass, or good mornin'. I must make the most
o' my time. There's no sayin' how soon the next call may come. Seems
to me as if people was settin' their houses alight on purpose to worry
us."

The tones in which the last sentences were uttered, and the creaking of
the bedstead indicated that the fireman was composing his massive limbs
to rest, and scarcely had Mrs Dashwood resumed her washing, when his
regular heavy breathing proclaimed him to be already in the land of Nod.

Quietly but steadily did Mrs Dashwood pursue her work. Neat little
under-garments, and fairy-like little socks, and indescribable little
articles of Lilliputian clothing of various kinds, all telling of the
little rosebud in the crib, passed rapidl