"Never to drink a drop of liquor as long as I live."
"Oh, father! dear, dear father!" And with a cry of joy Mary started up and flung herself upon his breast. Morgan drew his arms tightly around her, and sat for a long time, with his lips pressed to her cheek—while she lay against his bosom as still as death. As death? Yes: for when the father unclasped his arms, the spirit of his child was with the angels of the resurrection!
It was my fourth evening in the bar-room of the 'Sickle and Sheaf'. The company was not large, nor in very gay spirits. All had heard of little Mary's illness; which followed so quickly on the blow from the tumbler, that none hesitated about connecting the one with the other. So regular had been the child's visits, and so gently excited, yet powerful her influence over her father, that most of the frequenters at the 'Sickle and Sheaf' had felt for her a more than common interest; which the cruel treatment she received, and the subsequent illness, materially heightened.
"Joe Morgan hasn't turned up this evening," remarked some one.
"And isn't likely to for a while" was answered.
"Why not?" inquired the first speaker.
"They say the man with the poker is after him."
"Oh, dear that's dreadful. Its the second or third chase, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"He'll be likely to catch him this time."