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TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR-ROOM.
NIGHT THE FOURTH.
DEATH OF LITTLE MARY MORGAN.
"WHERE are you going, Ann?" It was the landlord's voice. Time—a little after dark.
"I'm going over to see Mrs. Morgan," answered his wife.
"What for?"
"I wish to go," was replied.
"Well, I don't wish you to go," said Slade, in a very decided way.
"I can't help that, Simon. Mary, I'm told, is dying, and Joe is in a dreadful way. I'm needed there—and so are you, as to that matter. There was a time when, if word came to you that Morgan or his family were in trouble———"
"Do hush, will you!" exclaimed the land-
