"Give me your hand, Harry!" and the major grasped his hand like a vise. "You are a good fellow," he added, with an oath.
"Forgive me, Mr. Phillips, for saying what I did; I was mad," pleaded Harry.
"So was I, my boy; but we won't mind that. You are a good fellow, and I like your spunk. So you have really been taking care of Joe's family while he was off on a drunk?"
"I didn't do much, sir."
"Look here, Harry, and you, Major Phillips. When I get this rum out of me I'll never take another drop again," said Joe, throwing himself into a chair.
"Bah, Joe! You have said that twenty times before," added Major Phillips.
"You dzee!" exclaimed Joe, doubling his fist, and bringing it down with the intention of hitting the table by his side to emphasize his resolution; but, unfortunately, he missed the table—a circumstance which seemed to fore-shadow the fate of his resolve.
Joe proceeded to declare in his broken speech what a shock he had received when he went home, half an hour before—the first time for several days—and heard the reproaches of his suffering wife; how grateful he was to Harry, and what a villain he considered himself. Either the sufferings of his family, or the rum he had drunk, melted his heart, and he was as eloquent as his half-paralyzed tongue would permit. He was a pitiable object; and having assured himself that Joe's family were comfortable for the night, Major Phillips put him to bed in his own house.
Harry was not satisfied with himself; he had permitted his temper to get the better of him. He thought of Julia on her bed of suffering, wept for her, and repented for himself. That night he heard the clock on the Boylston market strike twelve before he closed his eyes to sleep.
The next day, while he was at work in the stable, a boy of about fifteen called to see him, and desired to speak with him alone. Harry, much wondering who his visitor was, and what he wanted, conducted him to the ostlers' chamber.