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And starting away from the old man, he ran two or three paces, and then sprang clear over the head of a young lady, frightening her almost out of her wits.

“There! Who’ll match me that? Jim Haley’s the boy what’s hard to beat! Whoo-oo-oop, hurrah! But where’s Clara? Where’s my dear little wifie? Ah! there–No, that isn’t her, neither. Wh-wh-where is the little jade?”

The whole of this passed in a few moments, with all the drunken gestures required to give it the fullest effect.

Poor Clara, at first mortified, when she saw what a perfect madman her husband had become, was so shocked that her feelings overcame her, and she was carried fainting from the room. O, how bitter was her momentary repentance of her blind folly, ere her bewildered senses forsook her.

As for Haley, he grew worse and worse, until the brandy which he continued to pour down, had completely stupified him, when he was carried off to bed in a state of drunken insensibility; after which, the company retired in oppressive and embarrassed silence.

Sad and lonely was the bridal chamber that night, and the couch of the young bride was wet with bitter, but unavailing tears.

On the next morning, those who first entered the room where Haley had slept, found it empty. Towards the middle of the day, a letter was left for Clara by an unknown hand. It ran thus:

“DEAR CLARA–For you are still dear to me, although you have robbed me of happiness for ever, and crushed your own hopes with mine. For years before I came to this place, I had been a slave to intoxication–a slave held in a fearful bondage. At last, I resolved to break loose from my thraldom. One vigorous effort, and I was free. There yet remained to me a small remnant of a wrecked fortune. With this I abandoned my early home, and fixed my residence here, determined once more to be a man. Temptations beset me on every hand; but while I touched not, tasted not, handled not, I knew that I was safe. But alas for the hour when you became my tempter! O, that the remembrance of it could be blotted from my memory for ever! When, for your sake, I raised that fatal glass to my lips, and the single drop of wine that touched them thrilled wildly through every nerve, I felt that I was lost. Horrible were my sensations, but your tempting voice lured me to sip the scarcely tasted poison; I did so, and my resolution was gone! All that occurred after that is only dimly written on my memory. But I was a madman. That I can realize. When drunk, I have always acted the madman. And now we part for ever! I am a proud man, and cannot remain in the scene of my disgrace. My property I leave for you, and go I know not, and care not, whither–perhaps to die, unlamented, and unknown, and sink into a drunkard’s grave. Farewell!”

This letter bore neither name nor date. But they were not needed.

Five years from that sorrowful morning Clara sat by a window in her father’s house, near the close of day, looking dreamily up into the serene and cloudless sky. Her face was pale, and had a look of hopeless suffering. Five years!–It seemed as if twenty must have passed over her head, each burdening her with a heavy weight of affliction. O, what a wreck did she present! Five years of such a life! Who can tell their history? She was alone; and sat with her head upon her hand, and her eyes fixed, as if upon some object. But, evidently, no image touched the nerve of vision. Presently her lips moved, and a few mournful words were uttered aloud, almost involuntarily.

“O, that I knew where he was! O, that I could but find him, if alive!”

A slight noise startled her, and she turned quickly. Was it a vision? Or did her long-lost husband stand before her, the shadow of what he had been?

“Clara! Dear Clara!”

In a moment she was clinging to him with a trembling, eager, convulsive grasp. Tenderly did he fold her in his arms, and press his lips to hers fervently.

“Clara! Dear Clara!”

“My own dear husband!” was all she could utter, as she sank like a helpless child on his bosom.

For four years from the night of his wedding, Haley had been a common drunkard, with no power over himself. On the brink of the grave, he was rescued, signed a pledge of total abstinence, and set himself eagerly to work to elevate his condition. One year had sufficed to efface many sad tokens of his degradation, but time could not restore the freshness to his cheek, nor the light to his eye. Then he returned and sought his bride, who still mourned him with an inconsolable grief. A few months produced a happy change in both. But they cannot look back. Over the past they throw a veil,–the future is theirs, and it is growing brighter and brighter. May its clear sky never be darkened!