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“Well, it was a great pity,” replied Mr. L.; “Howard was worth a dozen George Eldons.”

“Do you suppose,” said Dallas, who had listened thus far in silence, “that if he had moved in a circle where it was the universal custom to banish all stimulating drinks, he would thus have fallen?”

“I cannot say,” said Mr. L.; “perhaps not.”

Mr. Dallas was a gentleman of fortune and leisure, and of an ardent and enthusiastic temperament. Whatever engaged him absorbed his whole soul; and of late years, his mind had become deeply engaged in schemes of philanthropy for the improvement of his fellow-men. He had, in his benevolent ministrations, often passed the dwelling of Edward, and was deeply interested in the pale and patient wife and mother. He made acquaintance with her through the aid of her children, and, in one way and another, learned particulars of their history that awakened the deepest interest and concern. None but a mind as sanguine as his would have dreamed of attempting to remedy such hopeless misery by the reformation of him who was its cause. But such a plan had actually occurred to him. The remarks of Mr. and Mrs. L. recalled the idea, and he soon found that his intended protege was the very Edward Howard whose early history was thus disclosed. He learned all the minutiae from these his early associates without disclosing his aim, and left them still more resolved upon his benevolent plan.

He watched his opportunity when Edward was free from the influence of stimulus, and it was just after the loss of his children had called forth some remains of his better nature. Gradually and kindly he tried to touch the springs of his mind, and awaken some of its buried sensibilities.

“It is in vain, Mr. Dallas, to talk thus to me,” said Edward, when, one day, with the strong eloquence of excited feeling, he painted the motives for attempting reformation; “you might as well attempt to reclaim the lost in hell. Do you think,” he continued, in a wild, determined manner–“do you think I do not know all you can tell me? I have it all by heart, sir; no one can preach such discourses as I can on this subject: I know all–believe all–as the devils believe and tremble.”

“Ay, but,” said Dallas, “to you there is hope; you are not to ruin yourself forever.”

“And who the devil are you, to speak to me in this way?” said Edward, looking up from his sullen despair with a gleam of curiosity, if not of hope.

“God’s messenger to you, Edward Howard,” said Dallas, fixing his keen eye upon him solemnly; “to you, Edward Howard, who have thrown away talents, hope, and health–who have blasted the heart of your wife, and beggared your suffering children. To you I am the messenger of your God–by me he offers health, and hope, and self-respect, and the regard of your fellow-men. You may heal the broken heart of your wife, and give back a father to your helpless children. Think of it, Howard: what if it were possible? Only suppose it. What would it be again to feel yourself a man, beloved and respected as you once were, with a happy home, a cheerful wife, and smiling little ones? Think how you could repay your poor wife for all her tears! What hinders you from gaining all this?”

“Just what hindered the rich man in hell–‘ between us there is a great gulf fixed;’ it lies between me and all that is good; my wife, my children, my hope of heaven, are all on the other side.”

“Ay, but this gulf can be passed: Howard, what would you give to be a temperate man?”

“What would I give?” said Howard. He thought for a moment, and burst into tears.