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Mor. Thank you, dear one! O God, what a wretched slave have I become! Fanny, I could not blame you were you to leave me to die alone!

MRS. M. Leave you, no! Though you have banished relatives and friends from your door, though you have drawn the contempt of the world upon your wretched head, though you are a mark for the good to grieve at and the vain to scoff at, still, still I will never desert you. The name of husband is not lost, though it be coupled with that of—

MOR. Drunkard! Yes, end the sentence—it is too true.

MRS. M. Oh, think how I have suffered, to see you day by day sink from your once exalted station, until you have reached the wretched footing of the outcast.

Your temper broken by that infatuation which my heart sickens to think of and my lips refuse to name; your child almost killed in trying to save you from a drunken quarrel —

Mor. Don't say that, Fanny, don't say that; the very thought makes me shudder.

MRS. M. She is not so well, I fear, to-night.
Mary. Mother, I see him! there he is, now!

Mrs. M. [going to couch]. Her mind at times wanders. What is it, my child?

Mary. Remember, you have promised me, father. I'm not well yet, you know. Oh, don't go—don't! There, he has gone! Well, I'll go after him again! I'll try and walk there! I can sit down and rest by the way! Oh, dear, how tired I am ! Father, father! Oh, dear!

Mor. Here I am, my child, I have not left you.
Mary. ,

Oh, I know you, now! It is my father! Stoop down to me. I want to whisper something to you—not to mother. I don't want her to hear it-it will make her feel

so bad.

MOR. Well, what is it, my child?
Mary. I shall never get well, father; I am going to die.
MRS. M. What does she

say,

husband? Mary. Hush, father.

. Don't tell her; I only said it to you. There, mother; you go away—you've got trouble

enough. I only told him, because he promised not to go to the tavern any more until I got well--and I'm not going to get well. Oh! Mr. Slade threw it so hard; but it didn't strike father, and I'm so glad! How it would have hurt him ! But he'll never go there any more, and that will be so good, won't it mother? [Sleeps. ]

SCENE II: Same as before. Time, early morning. MORGAN on floor, R.

of couch; MARY on couch asleep; MRS. MORGAN watching her Slow music.

SO

Mrs. M. Throughout the long, long night have I watched my suffering ones. Heaven only knows what is in store for me; yet I can not bring my inind to believe that all that is truly noble, truly deserving, in his nature should be destroyed. My poor child! How anxiously have I watched every movement of that sweet face. How I have longed for the morning sun to usher in its beams, and bring a gleam of joy to this almost broken heart!

MARY [waking]. Mother! Oh, how long I've been asleep! See if father's awake,

Mrs. M. He is still asleep, dear.

Mary. Oh, I wish he was awake; I want to see him much. Won't you try and wake him, mother.

Mrs. M. My dear child, father has suffered very much, and I was obliged to give hiin opium. Mary.

I'm sure he's been asleep a long time. Father! Mor. That voice! Where am I? [Awakes. ] Mrs. M. You have been very ill, Joe.

Mary. O father, I'm so glad you're awake. afraid you were never going to wake up again.

MOR. What can I do for you, my dear child?

Mary. Nothing. I don't wish for anything, I only wanted to see you. You've always been good to little Mary.

MOR. Oh, no! I've never been good to anyone.

Mary. You haven't been good to yourself, but you have always been good to me. Yes; and to poor mother, too.

Mor. Don't Mary! Don't say anything about that-say

I was

that I've been very bad. I only wish that I was as good as you are; I'd like to die then, and go right away from this wicked world. I wish there was no liquor to drink, no taverns, no barrooms—I wish I was dead.

MARY. Father! I want to tell you something more.
Mor. What is it, Mary?
MARY. There will be no one to go

after

you any more. MOR. Don't talk about that, Mary; I'm not going out in the evening any more, until you get well. Don't you remember, I promised?

Mary. Yes, I know, but-
MOR. What, dear?
Mary.

I'm going away to leave you and mother; our Heavenly Father has called me.

MOR. What shall we do when you are gone? Let me die, too.

Mary. You are not ready to go with me yet--you will live longer, that you may get ready. Haven't I tried to help you—oh! so many times, but it wasn't any use. You would go out; you would go to the tavern. It seemed almost as if you could not help it—may be I can help you better, father, after I die. I love you so much that I'm sure the good angels will let me come to you, and watch over you always. Don't you think so, mother?

Mrs. M. My dear child, you are not going to leave us?

Mary. Oh, yes I am! I dreamed something about pa while I slept. I thought it was night, and I was still sickyou promised not to go out again until I was well, but you did go out, and I thought you went over to Mr. Slade's tav

When I knew this, I felt as strong as when I was well, and I got up and dressed myself, and started out after you. At last I came to Mr. Slade's tavern, and there you stood, father, in the door, and you were dresseed so nice. You had on a new hat and a new coat, and your boots were new, and shined ever so bright. I said: “Oh! father, is this you? and then you took me up in your arms and kissed me, and said, Yes, Mary, this is your real father, not old Joe Morgan, but Mr. Morgan now.” It seemed all so strange; for there wasn't any barroom there any longer, but a store full of goods, and over the door I read your name, father. Oh, I was ever so glad that I awoke, and then I cried all to myself, for it was only a dream.

ern.

Mor. That dream, my dear child, shall become a reality; for here I promise that, God helping me, I will never go out at night again for a bad purpose !

Mrs. M. Do you indeed promise that, Joe?
Mor. Yes, and more. I'll never go

into a barroom again! MARY. Never. MRS. M. Do

Do you indeed promise that? ? MOR. Yes; and what is still more, I will never drink another drop of liquor as long as I live.

Mrs. M. Oh, husband, this is indeed happiness! Look! look at our dear child! Her eyes are fixed--she is dying!

MARY. Yes, mother, your Mary has lived long enoughthe angels have heard little Mary's prayer! Father won't want anyone to follow him, for he will be good, and sometime we all shall be together. Don't you remember the little hymn you taught me? It all comes to my mind, although I had not thought of it before for a long time. Everything looks so beautiful around me; I don't feel any pain now. Good-bye, father; I shan't have to ask you to be good to mother now. [Kisses him.] Good-bye, mother. [Kisses her.]

“We shall meet in the land where spring is eternal,

Where darkness ne'er cometh—no sorrow nor pain; Where flow’rs never fade—in that clime ever vernal

We shall meet, and our parting be never again." [Mary dies; MORGAN falls on the couch; Mrs. MORGAN sobs over the body. Slow music.]

A DRUNKEN people can never be the basis of a free people.

- Wendell Phillips. TEMPERANCE ALPHABET.

him on ;

A stands for Alcohol, deathlike its grip ;
B for Beginner, who takes just a sip;
C for Companion, who arges
D for the Demon of Drink that is born ;
E for Endeavor he makes to resist.
F stands for Friends who so loudly insist;
G for the Guilt that he afterward feels;
H for the Horrors that hang at his heels ;
I his Intention to drink not at all.
J stands for Jeering that follows his fall ;
K for his Knowledge that he is a slave ;
L for the Liquors his appetites crave;
M for convivial Meetings so gay.
N stands for No that he tries hard to say ;
0 for the Orgies that then come to pass.
P stands for Pride that he drowns in his glass ;
Q for the Quarrels that nightly abound.
R stands for Rain, that hovers around.
S stands for Sights that his vision bedim.
T stands for Trembling that seizes his limb;
U for his Usefulness sank in the slums.
V stands for Vagrant he quickly becomes ;
W for Waning of life that's soon done;
X for his eXit regretted by none.
Youth of this nation, such weakness is crime ;
Zealousy turn from the tempter in time.

WOMAN IN TEMPERANCE.

FRANCES E. WILLARD.

E are wiser than we were; our intellects ought to be all

e

more loving-hearted than we were; our sympathies ought to

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