"I'm here now, love."
"Dear father!" How earnestly, yet tenderly she spoke, laying her small hand upon his face. "You've always been good to me, father."
"Oh, no. I've never been good to anybody," sobbed the weak, broken-spirited man, as he raised himself from the pillow.
How deeply touched was Mrs. Slade, as she sat, the silent witness of this scene!
"You haven't been good to yourself, father—but you've always been good to us."
"Don't, Mary! don't say anything about that," interrupted Morgan. "Say that I've been very bad—very wicked. Oh, Mary, dear! I only wish that I was as good as you are; I'd like to die, then, and go right away from this evil world. I wish there was no liquor to drink—no taverns—no bar-rooms. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I was dead."
And the weak, trembling, half-palsied man laid his face again upon the pillow beside his child, and sobbed aloud.
What an oppressive silence reigned for a time through the room!
"Father." The stillness was broken by Mary. Her voice was clear and even. "Father, I want to tell you something."
"What is it, Mary?"