It was a happy family that sat down to the Easter dinner in William Sonnet’s modest home; and to make their joy complete, before the repast was ended an envelope arrived from William’s grateful employers containing an appointment for his bedridden mother-in-law as reader for a large publishing house.
THE TWO BROTHERS;
OR, PLUCKED FROM THE BURNING.
“No, Herbert, I would advise you to tear up that card and put temptation away from you. If you yield now you will weaken your moral character, and you will have less strength to resist another time.”
The speaker, a young man of grave, honest aspect, was standing with his hand laid in a kindly way on his younger brother’s shoulder. The latter, whose face was cast in a more delicate and a weaker mould, stood irresolutely twirling in his hand a card of invitation to an afternoon tea.
“I don’t see what harm it will do just for this one time,” he said, pettishly. “You’re always preaching about temptation, John; but, for my part, I think it’s my duty as a writer to see a little of every side of life. I want to write a novel some day and to have one of the scenes laid at a kettledrum. How can I describe one unless I see it myself?”
“I hope, Herbert,” said the elder brother, mildly, “that you will never sink so low as to write a New York Society novel; but that is surely what you will come to if you abandon yourself to the pernicious habit of attending afternoon teas. Do you remember your old playfellow, Walter Weakfish? It is only three years since he began to sip tea at kettledrums. At that time he was considered one of the very best reporters in the city, while at the poker table he commanded universal respect. You know, of course, that his downward career has been very rapid since his first fall, and that he has sounded every depth of ignominy and shame; but do you know where he is now?”
“I heard some time ago,” replied Herbert, “that he had become an habitual frequenter of the most exclusive musical circles in Boston, and that—”
“No,” interrupted the elder; “that was a malicious report. It is true that he once attended an organ recital, but that was all. At present he is conducting, over his own signature, a department entitled ‘Old Uncle Squaretoes’s Half-hour Chats with the Little Folks,’ in a Philadelphia paper.”