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Show MABEL'S DREAM. "Well, darling, is it to be wine or coffe?" Standing in his own doorway and looking out over the thousand acres of waving grain which surrounded the house where it had been born and reared. James Bust had rather disdained the city where men jostle each other, the ?? mounting of the downfall of the weak until a summer visit brought Mabel Aberdeen, a butterfly of fashion, to win his heart and conquer his prejudice so that the midwinter holidays found him at her side in her only home, holding her band that bore his ring and saying with a smile-"I have always been brought up to think ‘wine is a mocker and strong drink is raging,' but when one is in Rome you know-and I don't want to bring discredit on my patroness by unconventional singularity, which I believe is the greatest crime in your social code. So I leave you to decide-wine or coffee." She looked at his strength. Of all men, there could be no danger to him. And people would think it a country prejudice should he decline wine on New Year's day. "Come to me the first thing in the morning, and then do as I bid you," was her decision. And five minutes later the crisp snow was crunching under his firm tread, sad she had gone to her own room to tell cousin Grace what a splendid fellow he was and afterward to dream of to-morrow's festivities. The frosty air seemed to fairly dance with the jingle of the bells. The reception room was like a hall in a fairy palace. Every heart leaped with the good cheer of the New Year. "Wine or coffee?" And with her jewelled hand she held a fragile wine glass brimming with the red blood of the grape, and looked into his eyes with a smile that a siren might have envied. "To the health of our fair hostess! May her beauty never wane!" And for good or ill the wine passed his lips! After that he left her to go the round of New Year's calls. Ten years with their changes have come and gone! We pass from the fashionable thoroughfare down a disreputable street, through a filthy alley, up four flights of rickety stairs to an attic. Through the small dingy panes of glass, where they are not broken or stuffed with rags to keep out the cold, you can see only chimney tops and roofs covered with snow. In a small badly cracked stove, supported by two iron legs and a pile of broken bricks there are a few coals over which a woman is trying to cook something in a saucepan. Every once in a while she looked toward a corner of the room where stood a tumble down bedstead. Her attention was attracted by the coughing of a boy eight or nine years old, yet so wasted by privation that he was almost a living skeleton. Out of his great liquid eyes looked starvation. "Mamma, I'm so cold," he said in a shrill, piping voice. "Hush, dearest! Don't speak so loud. Huddle up close to papa. I'll have you something in a minute." The child looked to the other side of the bed, where a man lay in drunken stupor. "Mamma! Mamma!" "Hush, dearest," cautioned the woman again, with her heart to her mouth; but too late-the drunkard was aroused. "Halloa, there! Have you got something for me to eat!" he demanded. "No, dear, not a mouthful," said the woman, in a pleading voice hastily setting the saucepan beneath the stove. "What's that you say? Are you lying to me? I can smell something that you've been cooking. What's that you're putting under the stove? You're hiding it from me, are you? Fetch it out here, this minute!" He sat on the edge of the bed and glared at her angrily. "James it is only a little broth for Harry. Remember he is sick, and has had nothing to eat since yesterday." With an oath the man got up and approached the grate. "Husband, you must not take it. Oh, you cannot. Our child is dying-dying of hunger and this is all that I have!" "We'll see what I can do. Stand aside, I say." "No, no; you shall not have it." With an oath, he struck her to the floor, and picking up the saucepan, deliberately ate its contents. "We'll see who's master in this house," said the brute. "That's only a beginning. Now this brat has got to go out and beg. He's played the drone long enough. Here, sir! come out of that bed." And seizing the frightened child by the shoulder, he dragged him forth. "James! James! what are you going to do?" screamed the mother, throwing herself on her knees, and catching the child in her arms. "Take him out to the street-corner and make him beg." "No no; the child will freeze to death. He is already sick and starving. You shall not take him out into the cold-you shall not!" Desperately she clung to the boy, while his father wrenched at his arm until the child fainted with fright and pain. Then with an oath at his weakness, the father hurled the limp body back upon her. "Have you got any money?" he demanded. "No, James. The last penny went to buy the broth of which you deprived our starving child. Oh, my husband, how could you?" "I wonder if these things would fetch anything in the pawnshop?" And he tossed over the ragged bed clothes to find something that would bring the price of a single drink. "The whole lot wouldn't fetch a shilling," he growled, and walked out of the room, slamming the rickety door angrily. Then the mother rose with her unconscious boy, and laid him on the bed. There was a terrible look on her face as she drew from the closet a pan of charcoal and set it on the stove. With an icy calm she walked about the room, stuffing rags in all the crevices, and when this was done, ignited the charcoal. She bent over the child to take a last look-a look of devouring love and pity. She kissed lip, brow, and emaciated hands. Then she lay down and gathered him; he moved and cried-"Mamma! Mamma!" Then the poisonous vapors that arose from the charcoal seemed to clear away, and the voice became more distinct, resolving itself into the words-"Mabel! Mabel! What is the matter with you?" Mabel Aberdeen shook off the nightmare that held her in thrall. She was no longer a starving wretch courting death for herself and child, but a young lady in the full bloom of health and happiness, surrounded by every luxury. And it was only cousin Grace she held in such a convulsive grasp, while she trembled from head to foot, and a cold perspiration oozed from every pore in her body. And this was New Year's morning, and James Burton, no wretched drunkard, but noble James, so strong and so good, would be there and she was to decide whether he should drink wine or coffee. "Gentlemen, we have taken up with the now idea, and will serve you with coffee instead of wine. We hope that you will appreciate our motives, and be as well pleased." Politeness alone prevented some from elevating their eyebrows with a quiet smile. As for James Burton, his eyes glowed with genuine pleasure. No one else heard him when he whispered to her- "May, I am glad-very glad. I promise myself a brave little wife. But I am at a loss to know what influenced your decision." And with archness, dashed with a vain ?? she smiled up into his face and asked-"Do you believe in dreams?" He said no, but when she told him the particular dream he replied that he would so far modify his opinion as to place implicit faith us all dreams that recommend coffee in the place of wine on New Year's day.-Second Century. |