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“I’m afraid thy son-in-law is not doing very well, friend Crawford,” said a plain-spoken Quaker to the father of Mrs. Logan, after the young man’s habits began to show themselves too plainly in his appearance.

Mr. Crawford knit his brows, and drew his lips closely together.

“Has thee seen young Logan lately?”

“I don’t know the young man,” replied Mr. Crawford, with an impatient motion of his head.

“Don’t know thy own son-in-law! The husband of thy daughter!”

“I have no son-in-law! No daughter!” said Crawford, with stern emphasis.

“Frances was the daughter of thy wedded wife, friend Crawford.”

“But I have disowned her. I forewarned her of the consequences if she married that young man. I told her that I would cast her off for ever; and I have done it.”

“But, friend Crawford, thee has done wrong.”

“I’ve said it, and I’ll stick to it.”

“But thee has done wrong, friend Crawford,” repeated the Quaker.

“Right or wrong, it is done, and I will not recall the act. I gave her fair warning; but she took her own course, and now she must abide the consequences. When I say a thing, I mean it; I never eat my words.”

“Friend Crawford,” said the Quaker, in a steady voice and with his calm eyes fixed upon the face of the man he addressed. “Thee was wrong to say what thee did. Thee had no right to cast off thy child. I saw her to-day, passing slowly along the street. Her dress was thin and faded; but not so thin and faded as her pale, young face. Ah! if thee could have seen the sadness of that countenance. Friend Crawford! she is thy child still. Thee cannot disown her.”

“I never change,” replied the resolute father.

“She is the child of thy beloved wife, now in heaven, friend Crawford.”

“Good morning!” and Crawford turned and walked away.

“Rash words are bad enough,” said the Quaker to himself, “but how much worse is it to abide by rash words, after there has been time for reflection and repentance!”

Crawford was troubled by what the Quaker said; but more troubled by what he saw a few minutes afterwards, as he walked along the street, in the person of his daughter’s husband. He met the young man, supported by two others–so much intoxicated that he could not stand alone. And in this state he was going home to his wife–to Fanny!

The father clenched his hands, set his teeth firmly together, muttered an imprecation upon the head of Logan, and quickened his pace homeward. Try as he would, he could not shut out from his mind the pale, faded countenance of his child, as described by the Quaker, nor help feeling an inward shudder at the thought of what she must suffer on meeting her husband in such a state.

“She has only herself to blame,” he said, as he struggled with his feelings. “I forewarned her; I gave her to understand clearly what she had to expect. My word is passed. I have said it; and that ends the matter. I am no childish trifler. What I say, I mean.”

Logan had been from home all day, and, what was worse, had not been, as his wife was well aware, at the shop for a week. The woman with whom they were boarding, came into her room during the afternoon, and, after some hesitation and embarrassment, said–

“I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Logan that I shall want you to give up your room, after this week. You know I have had no money from you for nearly a month, and, from the way your husband goes on, I see little prospect of being paid any thing more. If I was able, for your sake, I would not say a word. But I am not, Mrs. Logan, and therefore must, in justice to myself and family, require you to get another boarding-house.”

Mrs. Logan answered only with tears. The woman tried to soften what she had said, and then went away.