fluttering painfully at the fearful nature of the task she had imposed on herself, and her tongue mechanically asking, "How shall I tell them ?"

In a snug little parlour on the ground floor of "The Cottage," might be seen, on the night in question, Mrs. Lister and her daughter. There was a cheerful fire in the grate, for the nights had begun to be chilly, and near the hearth were placed a large easy chair, and a pair of furred slippers. Mrs. Lister lay upon a sofa, which was drawn near the fire on the other side. She was apparently sleeping, but the lightness of her slumbers was evident from the start she gave, and from the opening of her eyes, when, at long intervals the sound of wheels or footsteps was heard upon the road. The younger lady was engaged in reading, but there was a weary look upon her face, and her mind was seemingly less occupied with her book than with her mother, upon whom she often gazed with a look of loving pity. Sorrow had truly left deep traces on that loved mother's countenance. The features were small and delicate, but suffering, mental or bodily, was stamped in unmistakable characters upon them.

Mary Lister was a gentle-looking girl, rather below the middle height, but so symmetrically formed, that to add to her stature, would but have lessened the gracefulness of her figure. She was simply attired, in a dress of dark blue silk, that contrasted well with

a skin of exceeding fairness, and hair of a lustrous brown. Perhaps all might not have pronounced her beautiful at the first glance. But it grew upon you-that gentle face, with its soft outline; and you would soon perceive playing over the girlish features, a quiet humour combined with a spice of determination and firmness that claimed at once your admiration and respect. Few physiognomists will assert that the face is always the index of the character; but Mary Lister's was so in a remarkable degree. You could not look upon it, even for a few moments, without feeling sure she was loving and gentle, yet to spend half-an-hour with her would fully convince you that Mary was not. to be trifled with, and that when her mind was once "made up" on any subject, it would be no easy matter to induce her to change it.

Having thus looked in upon Mary and her mother, let us turn back and accompany Mrs. Dent on her errand of sorrow. She, kind soul! is urging Tom to drive as fast as possible, shrinking all the while from the painful office she has taken upon herself. She was not surprised as she drew near "The Cottage," to see gleams of light from the window. Alas! it was but too common an occurrence with Mrs. Lister to act the watcher till midnight, and even till dawn of day. And Mary also; for it was not often her mother used her authority on this point, and without her express desire, Mary would never leave her to watch

alone. Thus it came to pass that night after night, sometimes for weeks together, mother and daughter, in sad companionship, cheered only by each other's sympathy and love, awaited the coming home of the husband and father.

Ah, that "coming home!" How many gentle loving hearts, racked with fear and sorrow wait and watch for it in the weary night hours! Wishing for, yet dreading, the sound of the unsteady step and perchance noisy vociferations of the expected one! Ours were not the only watchers on that still autumn night. Could you, reader, like another Asmodeus, lift the roofs from hundreds, I fear I may say thousands, of British homes on any night in the year, you would find, in various conditions indeed, from the splendour of wealth to the squalor of poverty, watchers, weary watchers everywhere. Some, like these, meekly and unmurmuringly bearing their heavy lot, others in passionate anguish crying out against the wrongs they suffer, and others still, in sullen apathy waiting the return of those whose entrance is but the signal for scenes of contention and abuse, often of conflict, strife and bloodshed.

But Mr. Lister was, in the common acceptation of the term, a gentleman; he had been well educated, and had moved in what is called genteel society. Consequently, kind reader, your mind will revolt from the supposition that such anticipations could be connected

in the minds of his family with his nightly return home. Yet it was too true. It must be owned, that gentleman as he was, some strange power at times transformed him to a being in whom no traces of gentlemanship, nay, scarcely of manhood, could be seen. It was 'not always thus with him. There were intervals in his madness, longer or shorter, as conscience or temptation prevailed, when he would be almost himself again; when the fond wife would "fan once more hope's expiring flame," and flatter herself into a belief of the possibility of his recovery. Then would recur the terrible relapse ;-the dormant passion again aroused, perhaps at his own fireside, by the fell agent of his misery; the rushing forth once more to the haunts of unrestrained indulgence, where impious hands are ever ready to help poor drunkards on the way to ruin; and then alas! would follow the sickening disappointment of the trembling hearts at home that bled afresh at every renewal of such scenes.

It was in one of these seasons of misery, when Mr. Lister was under the entire dominion of his foe, that the night of which I am speaking occurred. He had been, during the day, overwhelmed by the never-failing remorse that followed the previous night's excesses, and had as usual, had recourse to the glass to banish his present misery and harden his heart once more. this time in vain-the wretched relief came not at his call. He could not hide from his mental vision the

But

misery he was bringing on those he loved. The faded face of his wife, once so happy and beautiful, withering, not with age, but grief; the shame of his lovely daughter at the relationship which should ever be a source of pride to a child; and the remembrance of a son, an only son, self-exiled from the home where his feelings were outraged, and the respect that should have been his father's due changed into disgust ;-spectres such as these, combined with the physical sufferings ever attendant upon the inebriate, seemed at this time too vivid and powerful to be lulled by the accustomed draught. He could not rest, he could not even continue to drink, and with a horrible resolve, half formed ere he crossed the threshold of his home, he wandered forth, on that night, the victim of despair.

The result is known. That dread resolve, after an hour's aimless wandering from place to place, the miserable man carried into execution, and was found on the lonely highway in the condition already described. And it was to hear news so terrible that Mary Lister and her mother watched and waited on that peaceful autumn night!

More than once Mary had replenished the fire, and turning back a portion of the window-blind had peered out into the moonlit road with a wistful gaze. She had closed her book, for anxious thought prevented her from enjoying it, and her mother slept no longer.

"Father left home later than usual to-night," she