Nine o’clock at “The Shrubbery.” Mary and her mother are seated at breakfast, both a little dull and disinclined to speak. At last Mary breaks the silence by a profound sigh. Mrs Franklin smiles, and says:
“You seem rather burdened with care, my child.”
“Well, I don’t know, dear mamma; I don’t think it is exactly care, but I’m dissatisfied or disappointed that I don’t feel happier for last night’s party.”
“You don’t think there was much real enjoyment in it?”
“Not to me, mamma; and I don’t imagine very much to anybody—except, perhaps, to some of the very little ones. There was a hollowness and emptiness about the whole thing; plenty of excitement and a great deal of selfishness, but nothing to make me feel really brighter and happier.”
“No, my child; I quite agree with you: and I was specially sorry for old Mr Tankardew. I can’t quite understand what induced him to come: his conduct was very strange, and yet there is something very amiable about him in the midst of his eccentricities.”
“What a horror he seems to have of wine and negus and suchlike things, mamma.”
“Yes; and I’m sure what he saw last night would not make him any fonder of them. Poor Mark Rothwell quite forgot himself. I was truly glad to get away early.”
“Oh! So was I, mamma; it was terrible. I wish he wouldn’t touch such things; I’m sure he’ll do himself harm if he does.”
“Yes, indeed, Mary; harm in body, and character, and soul. Those are fearful words, ‘No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God.’”