# Ten nights in a bar-room and what I saw there/Night the Third

NIGHT THE THIRD.
JOE MORGAN'S CHILD.
"I DON'T see any thing of your very particular friend, Joe Morgan, this evening," said Harvey Green, leaning on the bar and speaking to Slade. It was the night succeeding that on which the painful and exciting scene with the child had occurred.
"No," was answered—and to the word was added a profane imprecation. "No; and if he'll just keep away from here, he may go to ——— on a hard-trotting horse and a porcupine saddle as fast as he pleases. He's tried my patience beyond endurance, and my mind is made up, that he gets no more drams at this bar. I've borne his vile tongue and seen my company annoyed by him just as long as I mean ​to stand it. Last night decided me. Suppose I'd killed that child?"
"You'd have had trouble then, and no mistake."
"Wouldn't I? Blast her little picture! What business has she creeping in here every night?"
"She must have a nice kind of a mother," remarked Green, with a cold sneer.
"I don't know what she is now," said Slade, a slight touch of feeling in his voice—"heartbroken, I suppose. I couldn't look at her last night; it made me sick. But there was a time when Fanny Morgan was the loveliest and best woman in Cedarville. I'll say that for her. Oh, dear! What a life her miserable husband has caused her to lead."
"Better that he were dead and out of the way."
"Better a thousand times," answered Slade. "If he'd only fall down some night and break his neck, it would be a blessing to his family."
​"And to you in particular," laughed Green.
"You may be sure it wouldn't cost me a large sum for mourning," was the unfeeling response.
Let us leave the bar-room of the "Sickle and Sheaf," and its cold-hearted inmates, and look in upon the family of Joe Morgan, and see how it is in the home of the poor inebriate. We will pass by a quick transition.
"Joe!" The thin white hand of Mrs. Morgan clasps the arm of her husband, who has arisen up suddenly, and now stands by the partly opened door. "Don't go out to-night, Joe. Please, don't go out."
"Father!" A feeble voice calls from the corner of an old settee, where little Mary lies with her head bandaged.
"Well, I won't then!" is replied—not angrily, nor even fretfully—but in a kind voice.
"Come and sit by me, father." How tenderly, yet how full of concern is that low, sweet voice. "Come, won't you?"
​"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!"
​How the large blue eyes dance and sparkle!
"What is it, love?"
"That you'll never go into Simon Slade's bar any more."
The child raises herself, evidently with a painful effort; and leans nearer to her father.
Joe shakes his head, and poor Mary drops back upon her pillow with a sigh.
Her lids fall, and the long lashes lie strongly relieved on her colorless cheeks.
"I won't go there to-night, dear. So let your heart be at rest."
Mary's lids unclose, and two round drops, released from their clasp, glide slowly over her face.
"Thank you, father—thank you. Mother will be so glad."
The eyes closed again; and the father moved uneasily. His heart is touched. There is a struggle within him. It is on his lips to say that he will never drink at the "Sickle and Sheaf" again; but resolution just lacks the force of utterance.
​"Father!"
"Well, dear?"
"I don't think I'll be well enough to go out in two or three days. You know the doctor said that I would have to keep very still, for I had a great deal of fever."
"Yes, poor child."
"Now, won't you promise me one thing?"
"What is it, dear?"
"Not to go out in the evening until I get well."
Joe Morgan hesitated.
"Just promise me that, father. It won't be long; I shall be up again in a little while."
How well the father knows what is in the heart of his child. Her fears are all for him. Who is to go after her poor father, and lead him home when the darkness of inebriety is on his spirit, and external perception so dulled that not skill enough remains to shun the harm that lies in his path?
"Do promise just that, father, dear."
​He cannot resist the pleading voice and look. "I promise it, Mary; so shut your eyes now and go to sleep. I'm afraid this fever will increase."
"Oh! I'm so glad—so glad!"
Mary does not clasp her hands, nor show strong external signs of pleasure; but how full of a pure, unselfish joy is that low-murmured ejaculation, spoken in the depths of her spirit, as well as syllabled by her tongue!
Mrs. Morgan has been no unconcerned witness of all this; but knowing the child's influence over her father, she has not ventured a word. More was to be gained, she was sure, by silence on her part; and so she has kept silent. Now she comes nearer to them, and says, as she lets a hand rest on the shoulder of her husband:
"You feel better for that promise already; I know you do."
He looks up to her, and smiles faintly. He does feel better, but is hardly willing to acknowledge it.
​Soon after Mary is sleeping. It does not escape the observation of Mrs. Morgan that her husband grows restless; for he gets up suddenly, every now and then, and walks quickly across the room, as if in search of something. Then sits down, listlessly—sighs—stretches himself, and says, "Oh, dear!" What shall she do for him? How is the want of his accustomed evening stimulus to be met? She thinks, and questions, and grieves inwardly. Poor Joe Morgan! His wife understands his case, and pities him from her heart. But what can she do? Go out and get him something to drink? "Oh, no! no! no! never!" She answered the thought audibly almost, in the excitement of her feelings. An hour has passed—Joe's restlessness has increased instead of diminishing. What is to be done? Now Mrs. Morgan has left the room. She has resolved upon some thing, for the case must be met. Ah! here she comes, after an absence of five minutes, bearing in her hand a cup of strong coffee.
​"It was kind and thoughtful in you, Fanny," says Morgan, as with a gratified look he takes the cup. But his hand trembles, and he spills a portion of the contents as he tries to raise it to his lips. How dreadfully his nerves are shattered! Unnatural stimulants have been applied so long, that all true vitality seems lost.
And now the hand of his wife is holding the cup to his lips, and he drinks eagerly.
"This is dreadful—dreadful! Where will it end? What is to be done?"
Fanny suppresses a sob, as she thus gives vent to her troubled feelings. Twice, already, has her husband been seized with the drunkard's madness; and, in the nervous prostration consequent upon even a brief withdrawal of his usual strong stimulants, she sees the fearful precursor of another attack of this dreadful and dangerous malady. In the hope of supplying the needed tone she has given him strong coffee; and this, for the time, produces the effect ​desired. The restlessness is allayed, and a quiet state of body and mind succeeds. It needs but a suggestion to induce him to retire for the night. After being a few minutes in bed, sleep steals over him, and his heavy breathing tells that he is in the world of dreams.
And now there comes a tap at the door.
"Come in," is answered.
The latch is lifted, the door swings open, and a woman enters.
"Mrs. Slade!" The name is uttered in a tone of surprise.
"Fanny, how are you this evening?"
Kindly, yet half sadly, the words are said.
"Tolerable, I thank you."
The hands of the two women are clasped, and for a few moments they gaze into each other's face. What a world of tender commiseration is in that of Mrs. Slade!
"How is little Mary to-night?"
"Not so well, I'm afraid. She has a good deal of fever."
​"Indeed! Oh, I'm sorry! Poor child! what a dreadful thing it was! Oh! Fanny! you don't know how it has troubled me. I've been intending to come around all day to see how she was, but couldn't get off until now."
"It came near killing her," said Mrs. Morgan.
"It's in God's mercy she escaped. The thought of it curdles the very blood in my veins. Poor child! is this her on the settee?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Slade takes a chair, and sitting by the sleeping child, gazes long upon her pale sweet face. Now the lips of Mary part—words are murmured—what is she saying?
"No, no, mother; I can't go to bed yet. Father isn't home. And it's so dark. There's no one to lead him over the bridge. I'm not afraid. Don't—don't cry so, mother—I'm not afraid! Nothing will hurt me."
The child's face flushes. She moans, and throws her arms about uneasily. Hark again.
"I wish Mr. Slade wouldn't look so cross at ​me. He never did when I went to the mill. He doesn't take me on his knee now, and stroke my hair. Oh, dear! I wish father wouldn't go there any more. Don't! don't, Mr. Slade. Oh! oh!"—the ejaculation prolonged into a frightened cry, "My head! my head!"
A few choking sobs are followed by low moans; and then the child breathes easily again.
But the flush does not leave her cheek; and when Mrs. Slade, from whose eyes the tears come forth drop by drop, and roll down her face, touches it lightly, she finds it hot with fever.
"Has the doctor seen her to-day, Fanny?"
"No, ma'am."
"He should see her at once. I will go for him;" and Mrs. Slade starts up and goes quickly from the room. In a little while she returns with Doctor Green, who sits down and looks at the child for some moments with a sober, thoughtful face. Then he lays his fingers on her pulse and times its beat by his ​watch—shakes his head, and looks graver still.
"How long has she had fever?" he asks.
"All day."
" You should have sent for me earlier."
"Oh, doctor! She is not dangerous, I hope?" Mrs. Morgan looks frightened.
"She's a sick child, madam."
"You've promised, father."—The dreamer is speaking again.—"I'm not well enough yet. Oh, don't go, father; don't! There! He's gone! Well, well! I'll try and walk there—I can sit down and rest by the way. Oh, dear! How tired I am! Father! Father!"
The child starts up and looks about her wildly.
"Oh, mother, is it you?" And she sinks back upon her pillow, looking now inquiringly from face to face.
"Father—where is father?" she asks.
"Asleep, dear."
"Oh! Is he? I'm glad."
​Her eyes close wearily.
"Do you feel any pain, Mary?" inquired the doctor. "Yes, sir—in my head. It aches and beats so."
The cry of "Father" has reached the ears of Morgan, who is sleeping in the next room, and roused him into consciousness. He knows the doctor's voice. Why is he here at this late hour? "Do you feel any pain, Mary?" The question he hears distinctly, and the faintly uttered reply also. He is sober enough to have all his fears instantly excited. There is nothing in the world that he loves as he loves that child. And so he gets up and dresses himself as quickly as possible; the stimulus of anxiety giving tension to his relaxed nerves.
"Oh, father!" The quick ears of Mary detect his entrance first, and a pleasant smile welcomes him.
"Is she very sick, doctor?" he asks, in a voice full of anxiety.
​"She's a sick child, sir; you should have sent for me earlier." The doctor speaks rather sternly, and with a purpose to rebuke.
The reply stirs Morgan, and he seems to cower half-timidly under the words, as if they were blows. Mary has already grasped her father's hand, and holds on to it tightly.
After examining the case a little more closely, the doctor prepares some medicine, and promising to call early in the morning, goes away.
Mrs. Slade follows soon after; but, in parting with Mrs. Morgan, leaves something in her hand, which, to the surprise of the latter, proves to be a ten-dollar bill. The tears start to her eyes; and she conceals the money in her bosom—murmuring a fervent "God bless her!"
A simple act of restitution is this on the part of Mrs. Slade, prompted as well by humanity as a sense of justice. With one hand her husband has taken the bread from the family of his old friend, and thus with the other she restores it.
​And now Morgan and his wife are alone with their sick child. Higher the fever rises, and partial delirium seizes upon her over-excited brain. She talks for a time almost incessantly. All her trouble is about her father; and she is constantly referring to his promise not to go out in the evening until she gets well. How tenderly and touchingly she appeals to him; now looking up into his face in partial recognition; and now calling anxiously after him, as if he had left her and was going away.
"You'll not forget your promise, will you, father?" she says, speaking so calmly, that he thinks her mind has ceased to wander.
"No, dear; I will not forget it," he answers, smoothing her hair gently with his hand.
"You'll not go out in the evening again, until I get well?"
"No, dear."
"Father!"
"What, love?"
​"Stoop down closer; I don't want mother to hear; it will make her feel so bad."
The father bends his ear close to the lips of Mary. How he starts and shudders! What has she said?—only these brief words:
"I shall not get well, father; I'm going to die."
The groans, impossible to repress, that issued through the lips of Joe Morgan, startled the ears of his wife, and she came quickly to the bed-side.
"What is it? What is the matter, Joe?" she inquired, with a look of anxiety.
"Hush, father. Don't tell her. I only said it to you." And Mary put a finger on her lips, and looked mysterious. "There, mother—you go away; you've got trouble enough, any how. Don't tell her, father."
But the words, which came to him like a prophecy, awoke such pangs of fear and remorse in the heart of Joe Morgan, that it was impossible for him to repress the signs of pain. ​For some moments he gazed at his wife—then stooping forward, suddenly, he buried his face in the bed-clothes, and sobbed bitterly.
A suggestion of the truth now flashed through the mind of Mrs. Morgan, sending a thrill of pain along every nerve. Ere she had time to recover herself, the low, sweet voice of Mary broke upon the hushed air of the room, and she sung:
"Jesus can make a dying bed Feel soft as downy pillows are, While on His breast I lean my head, And breathe my life out, sweetly, there."
It was impossible for Mrs. Morgan longer to repress her feelings. As the softly breathed strain died away, her sobs broke forth, and for a time she wept violently.
"There," said the child,—"I didn't mean to tell you. I only told father, because—because he promised not to go to the tavern any more until I got well; and I'm not going to get well. So, you see, mother, he'll never go again—never​—never—never. Oh, dear! how my head pains. Mr. Slade threw it so hard. But it didn't strike father; and I'm so glad. How it would have hurt him—poor father! But he'll never go there any more; and that will be so good, won't it, mother?"
A light broke over her face; but seeing that her mother still wept, she said:
"Don't cry. Maybe I'll be better."
And then her eyes closed heavily, and she slept again.
"Joe," said Mrs. Morgan, after she had in a measure recovered herself—she spoke firmly—"Joe, did you hear what she said?"
Morgan only answered with a groan.
"Her mind wanders; and yet she may have spoken only the truth."
He groaned again.
"If she should die, Joe———"
"Don't; oh, don't talk so, Fanny. She's not going to die. It's only because she's a little light-headed."
​"Why is she light-headed, Joe?"
"It's the fever—only the fever, Fanny."
"It was the blow, and the wound on her head, that caused the fever. How do we know the extent of injury on the brain? Doctor Green looked very serious. I'm afraid, husband, that the worst is before us. I've borne and suffered a great deal—only God knows how much—I pray that I may have strength to bear this trial also. Dear child! She is better fitted for heaven than for earth, and it may be that God is about to take her to Himself. She's been a great comfort to me—and to you, Joe, more like a guardian angel than a child."
Mrs. Morgan had tried to speak very firmly; but as sentence followed sentence, her voice lost more and more of its even tone. With the closing words all self-control vanished; and she wept bitterly. What could her feeble erring husband do, but weep with her?
"Joe,"—Mrs. Morgan aroused herself as ​quickly as possible, for she had that to say which she feared she might not have the heart to utter—"Joe, if Mary dies, you cannot forget the cause of her death."
"Oh, Fanny! Fanny!"
"Nor the hand that struck the cruel blow."
"Forget it? Never! And if I forgive Simon Slade———"
"Nor the place where the blow was dealt," said Mrs. Morgan, interrupting him.
"Poor—poor child!" moaned the conscience stricken man.
"Nor your promise, Joe—nor your promise given to our dying child."
"Father! Father! Dear father!" Mary's eyes suddenly unclosed, as she called her father eagerly.
"Here I am, love. What is it?" And Joe Morgan pressed up to the bed-side.
"Oh! it's you, father! I dreamed that you had gone out, and—and—but you won't, will you, dear father?"
​"No, love—no."
"Never any more until I get well?"
"I must go out to work, you know, Mary."
"At night, father. That's what I mean. You won't, will you?"
"No, dear, no."
A soft smile trembled over the child's face; her eyelids drooped wearily, and she fell off into slumber again. She seemed not so restless as before—did not moan, nor throw herself about in her sleep.
"She's better, I think," said Morgan, as he bent over her, and listened to her softer breathing.
"It seems so," replied his wife. Joe, you must go to bed again. "And now, I will lie down here with Mary, and be ready to do any thing for her that she may want."
"I don't feel sleepy. I'm sure I couldn't close my eyes. So let me sit up with Mary. You are tired and worn out."
Mrs. Morgan looked earnestly into her ​husband's face. His eyes were unusually bright, and she noticed a slight nervous restlessness about his lips. She laid one of her hands on his, and perceived a slight tremor.
"You must go to bed," she spoke firmly. "I shall not let you sit up with Mary. So go at once." And she drew him almost by force into the next room.
"It's no use, Fanny. There's not a wink of sleep in my eyes. I shall lie awake anyhow. So do you get a little rest."
Even as he spoke there were nervous twitchings of his arms and shoulders; and as he entered the chamber, impelled by his wife, he stopped suddenly and said:
"What is that?"
"Where?" asked Mrs. Morgan.
"Oh, it's nothing—I see. Only one of my old boots. I thought it a great black cat."
Oh! what a shudder of despair seized upon the heart of the wretched wife. Too well she knew the fearful signs of that terrible ​madness from which, twice before, he had suffered. She could have looked on calmly and seen him die—but, "Not this—not this! Oh, Father in heaven!" she murmured, with such a heart-sinking that it seemed as if life itself would go out.
"Get into bed, Joe; get into bed as quickly as possible."
Morgan was now passive in the hands of his wife, and obeyed her almost like a child. He had turned down the bed-clothes, and was about getting in, when he started back, with a look of disgust and alarm.
"There's nothing there, Joe. What's the matter with you?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Fanny," and his teeth rattled together, as he spoke. "I thought there was a great toad under the clothes."
"How foolish you are!"—yet tears were blinding her eyes as she said this. "It's only fancy. Get into bed and shut your eyes. I'll make you another cup of strong coffee. ​Perhaps that will do you good. You're only a little nervous. Mary's sickness has disturbed you."
Joe looked cautiously under the bedclothes, as he lifted them up still farther, and peered beneath.
"You know there's nothing in your bed; see!"
And Mrs. Morgan threw, with a single jerk, all the clothes upon the floor.
"There now! look for yourself. Now shut your eyes," she continued, as she spread the sheet and quilt over him, after his head was on the pillow. "Shut them tight and keep them so until I boil the water and make a cup of coffee. You know as well as I do that it's nothing but fancy."
Morgan closed his eyes firmly, and drew the clothes over his head.
"I'll be back in a very few minutes," said his wife, going hurriedly to the door. Ere leaving, however, she partly turned her head and glanced ​back. There sat her husband, upright and staring fearfully.
"Don't, Fanny! don't go away!" he cried, in a frightened voice.
"Joe! Joe! why will you be so foolish? It's nothing but imagination. Now do lie down and shut your eyes. Keep them shut. There now."
And she laid a hand over his eyes, and pressed it down tightly.
"I wish Doctor Green was here," said the wretched man.
"He could give me some thing."
"Shall I go for him?"
"Go, Fanny! Run over right quickly."
"But you won't keep in bed."
"Yes, I will. There now." And he drew the clothes over his face. "There; I'll lie just so until you come back. Now run, Fanny, and don't stay a minute."
Scarcely stopping to think, Mrs. Morgan went hurriedly from the room, and drawing an ​old shawl over her head, started with swift feet for the residence of Doctor Green, which was not very far away. The kind doctor understood, at a word, the sad condition of her husband, and promised to attend him immediately. Back she flew at even a wilder speed, her heart throbbing with vague apprehension. Oh! what a fearful cry was that which smote her ears as she came within a few paces of home. She knew the voice, changed as it was by terror, and a shudder almost palsied her heart. At a single bound she cleared the intervening space, and in the next moment was in the room where she had left her husband. But he was not there! With suspended breath, and feet that scarcely obeyed her will, she passed into the chamber where little Mary lay. Not here!
"Joe! husband!" she called in a faint voice.
"Here he is, mother." And now she saw that Joe had crept into the bed behind the sick child, and that her arm was drawn tightly around his neck.
​"You won't let them hurt me, will you, dear?" said the poor, frightened victim of a terrible mania.
"Nothing will hurt you, father," answered Mary, in a voice that showed her mind to be clear, and fully conscious of her parent's true condition.
She had seen him thus before. Ah! what an experience for a child!
"You're an angel—my good angel, Mary," he murmured, in a voice yet trembling with fear. "Pray for me, my child. Oh, ask your Father in heaven to save me from these dreadful creatures. There now!" he cried, rising up suddenly, and looking toward the door. "Keep out! Go away! You can't come in here. This is Mary's room; and she's an angel. Ah, ha! I knew you wouldn't' dare come in here—
"A single saint can put to flight, Ten thousand blustering sons of night"
He added in a half-wandering way, yet with an assured voice, as he laid himself back upon ​his pillow, and drew the clothes over his head.
"Poor father!" sighed the child, as she gathered both arms about his neck. "I will be your good angel. Nothing shall hurt you here."
"I knew I would be safe where you were," he whispered back—"I knew it, and so I came. Kiss me, love."
How pure and fervent was the kiss laid instantly upon his lips! There was a power in it to remand the evil influences that were surrounding and pressing in upon him like a flood. All was quiet now, and Mrs. Morgan neither by word nor movement disturbed the solemn stillness that reigned in the apartment. In a few minutes the deepened breathing of her husband gave a blessed intimation that he was sinking into sleep. Oh, sleep! sleep! How tearfully, in times past, had she prayed that he might sleep; and yet no sleep came for hours and days—even though powerful opiates were ​given—until exhausted nature yielded, and then sleep had a long, long struggle with death. Now the sphere of his loving, innocent child seemed to have overcome, at least for the time, the evil influences that were getting possession even of his external senses. Yes, yes, he was sleeping! Oh, what a fervent "Thank God!" went up from the heart of his stricken wife.
Soon the quick ears of Mrs. Morgan detected the doctor's approaching footsteps, and she met him at the door with a finger on her lips. A whispered word or two explained the better aspect of affairs, and the doctor said, encouragingly:
"That's good, if he will only sleep on."
"Do you think he will, doctor?" was asked anxiously.
"He may. But we cannot hope too strongly. It would be something very unusual."
Both passed noiselessly into the chamber. Morgan still slept, and by his deep breathing ​it was plain that he slept soundly. And Mary, too, was sleeping, her face now laid against her father's, and her arms still about his neck. The sight touched even the doctor's heart and moistened his eyes. For nearly half an hour he remained; and then, as Morgan continued to sleep, he left medicine to be given immediately, and went home, promising to call early in the morning.
It is now past midnight, and we leave the lonely, sad-hearted watcher with her sick ones.
I was sitting, with a newspaper in my hand—not reading, but musing—at the "Sickle and Sheaf," late in the evening marked by the incidents just detailed.
"Where's your mother?" I heard Simon Slade inquire. He had just entered an adjoining room.
"She's gone out somewhere," was answered by his daughter Flora.
​"Where?"
"I don't know."
" How long has she been away?"
"More than an hour."
"And you don't know where she went to?"
"No, sir."
Nothing more was said, but I heard the landlord's heavy feet moving backward and forward across the room for some minutes.
"Why, Ann! where have you been?" The door of the next room had opened and shut.
"Where I wish you had been with me," was answered in a very firm voice.
"Where?"
"To Joe Morgan's."
"Humph!" Only this ejaculation met my ears. But something was said in a low voice, to which Mrs. Slade replied with some warmth:
"If you don't have his child's blood clinging for life to your garments, you may be thankful."
"What do you mean?" he asked, quickly.
​"All that my words indicate. Little Mary is very ill!"
"Well, what of it."
"Much. The doctor thinks her in great danger. The cut on her head has thrown her into a violent fever, and she is delirious. Oh, Simon! if you had heard what I heard to-night."
"What?" was asked in a growling tone.
"She is out of her mind, as I said, and talks a great deal. She talked about you."
"Of me! Well, what had she to say?"
"She said—so pitifully—'I wish Mr. Slade wouldn't look so cross at me. He never did when I went to the mill. He doesn't take me on his knee now, and stroke my hair. Oh dear!' Poor child! She was always so good."
"Did she say that?" Slade seemed touched.
"Yes, and a great deal more. Once she screamed out, 'Oh, don't! don't, Mr. Slade! don't! My head! my head!' It made my very heart ache. I can never forget her pale, ​frightened face, nor her cry of fear. Simon—if she should die!"
There was a long silence.
"If we were only back to the mill." It was Mrs. Slade's voice.
"There, now! I don't want to hear that again," quickly spoke out the landlord. "I made a slave of myself long enough."
"You had at least a clear conscience," his wife answered.
"Do hush, will you?" Slade was now angry. "One would think, by the way you talk sometimes, that I had broken every command of the Decalogue."
"You will break hearts as well as commandments, if you keep on for a few years as you have begun—and ruin souls as well as fortunes."
Mrs. Slade spoke calmly, but with marked severity of tone. Her husband answered with an oath, and then left the room, banging the door after him. In the hush that followed I retired to my chamber, and lay for an hour ​awake, pondering on all I had just heard. What a revelation was in that brief passage of words between the landlord and his excited companion!