babe in her arms, and the other but little over two years old, and wander away, sometimes two or three miles from the city. Into every tavern that came in her way, she would go and ask if her husband were there, so earnestly that all who did not know her actually believed her in search of a living but drunken husband. This state would continue for a few days, and then she would return home and quietly resume her duties.

Davidson, after the rencontre with Jones, deemed it an act of prudence to leave the city. He regretted the consequences of his angry contest with a much weaker man. But the thing was done and could'nt be helped, and he did 'nt feel disposed to give himself any very great deal of trouble about it. When, however, he heard of his victim's death, he was not only alarmed lest serious consequences should fall upon him, but troubled with no very light selfreproaches. He did not, however, mend his ways; but continued his downward course of dissipation. Nearly a year after the death of Jones, he returned to the neighbourhood of the place where he had formerly lived, and spent a day or two at a public house.

One afternoon, near the time of sun-set, Davidson was standing at the bar with a glass in his hand, when he saw from the window a woman slowly approaching the house, bearing one child in her arms and leading another. "Who is that?" he said to the bar-keeper,

"That? Oh, that is the woman who is looking for her drunken husband," replied the bar-keeper, "I do 'nt know who she is; but she comes this way, now and then, looking after her husband, but I do 'nt believe he visits our house; if he does, she has never yet caught him here. I think she had better stay at home."

"She looks

"That's it, is it?" returned Davidson. young to have a drunken husband. I'll go out and give her something. No doubt she needs it-I never saw a

wife with a drunken husband, who did not. Thank heaven, I have no wife!"

Saying this, Davidson stepped out, still holding his glass in his hand. The woman had nearly gained the door.

"Here, my good woman, take that: it will help buy your little ones some bread," said Davidson, reaching towards her a piece of money.

"No, keep your money!" she replied in a quick voice, "I want my husband! Give me my husband! Give me back my husband."

The veil instantly fell from the wretched man's eyes; the woman was no longer a stranger. Sally Jones stood before him and demanded her husband. He staggered back a few paces, the glass fell from his hand; he kept from falling with difficulty. That mournful voice thrilled every nerve,-The woman seemed not to notice the effect of her words, but went past him, and entering the bar room, enquired for her husband. The simple answer that he was not there, satisfied her. She turned away and left the house.

"Why do 'nt you give that woman back her husband?" said the bar-keeper, affecting a stern voice and air as Davidson re-entered the room. He had heard the earnest appeal that had been made, and thought that it afforded a good subject for a jest.

"It is not in my power," replied Davidson, in a serious voice. "I cannot call back the dead.”

"Is her husband dead?" asked the bar-keeper, his manner changing. "I did not know that."

"Yes. He has been dead for more than a year."

"I thought you did 'nt know her."

"Nor did I, until I went out."

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Jones."

"The one whose husband was killed by a man named Davidson ?"

"The same," was replied in as firm a voice as it was possible to assume.

"Indeed! Poor woman! It has set her crazy."

"So it seems."

Davidson did not remain long at the tavern after this; nor long in the neighbourhood of the city in which Mrs. Jones lived. He went off to the west, haunted with the image of the wife whose husband he had murdered, body and soul. He drank no more. With one firm resolution he abandoned forever the maddening cup. As far as is in his power he is striving to make some return of good for the evil he has done. Every month, Mrs. Jones, who no longer suffers to the extent that she did from mental aberation, receives about twenty dollars in a blank envelope from an unknown source. This has come, regularly, for years. The reader may easily guess from whom.

TO THE SONS OF TEMPERANCE.

BY FANNY FORRESTER.

On, brothers, on! though the night be gone,
And the morning glory breaking,

Though your toils be blest, ye may not rest,
For danger's ever waking.

Ye have spread your sail, ye have braved the gale,

And a calm o'er the sea is creeping;

But I know by the sky, that danger's nigh

There's yet no time for sleeping!

Still dingy walls nurse midnight brawls;
Up from the vale is wreathing

A fatal cloud, the soul to shroud,
While man its poison's breathing.
Still vice is seen in glittering sheen,
In the ruby bubble laughing;

But Death his shrine, has reared in wine,
And the young blood he is quaffing.

When the beaker's brim with rust is dim,
Because no lip will press it,

When the worm is dead, which ever fed
On the heart that dared caress it,

When the gay false light of the eye so bright
Be too true for thought to smother,

When the art be lost, hither demon tossed,
And man tempt not his brother-

Then, peaceful and blest, from toil ye may rest; Else, rest is but in heaven ;

For shame still lies in sad wet eyes,

Still hearts with wo are riven.

Then brothers on! though the night be gone,
And the morning glory breaking,

Though your toils be blest, ye may not rest,
For danger, danger's waking!