90
TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR-ROOM.
"Yes, dear."
"Now hold my hand, father."
Joe takes the hand of little Mary, that instantly lightens upon his.
"You won't go away and leave me to-night, will you, father? Say you won't."
"How very hot your hand is, dear. Does your head ache?"
"A little; but it will soon feel better."
Up into the swollen and disfigured face of the fallen father, the large, earnest blue eyes of the child are raised.
She does not see the marred lineaments; but only the beloved countenance of her parent.
"Dear father!"
"What, love?"
"I wish you'd promise me something."
"What, dear?"
"Will you promise?"
"I can't say until I hear your request. If I can promise, I will."
"Oh! you can promise—you can, father!"
