"No, no," moaned Nick, "I am too low down; I am an absolute slave to rum."
"Baba," commanded the Goblin, "take up the shoe you have nearly finished, look into the sole and tell me what you see there. It is a mirror of the past."
Nick took the shoe from the floor and gazed at it intently for a few seconds. He was agitated, and his powerful breast heaved as only a strong man may be moved—he wept.
"What do you see? Speak!" said his tormentor.
"I see," responded Nick, mechanically, "a scene of seven years ago. It is the image of a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl before the altar in her wedding garments. I am there also, vowing to protect her; to stand up and battle with the world for her; to be a barrier between her and want. But I have not done it—I have been recreant to every principle of honor or manhood, God help me."
"Now, Nick," said the conjuror, persuasively, "pick up the other shoe and tell me what you see there. That is a mirror of the present."
"I see," groaned Nick, "in place of that fair-haired girl at the church, then all happiness, a prematurely old woman, faded and disheartened. Three ragged children cling to her scanty clothing. They beg of her mere bread to keep off hunger. She has none to give them—she draws them closer to her, and folding them in her emaciated arms, kisses them. She gives them all she has—a mother's love."
"What more do you see," demanded the magician: "tell it all."
"Oh! maddening sight," sobbed Nick; "I see myself staggering from the ale-house and reeling into what should be a home, where gaunt starvation stalks the floor; where the hearth is fireless, and where a starving family die upon a pallet of straw."