"A pretty hussy you are!" said he, in an angry voice; "not a bit of breakfast ready for me, and I obliged to support you. I think I'll send you and Eddy to earn for yourselves. Where is he now? Ay, I'll be bound, upon the stairs; he's always dawdling about on the landing."

Mary Graham felt the deepest thankfulness at the thought that dear Eddy was now safe, beyond the reach either of hard words or blows; she did not, however, answer John immediately, for she did not know how he would receive the intelligence that the boy was gone.

"Go out, and fetch him in," said John Graham, in a rough voice; "tell him he shan't have his penny to-day unless he sorts those apples against I come home to dinner."

Mary Graham could, of course, withhold no longer from telling her brother John exactly how matters stood; so she informed him of the poor cripple's having gone to the hospital.

"Gone to the hospital!" cried he, in astonishment. "And how did he get there?" "I took him," said his sister.

"And how did you take him? upon your back, eh?"

"No, not upon my back," answered Mary, for she was afraid to say that she had taken the truck.

"You haven't taken the truck, have you?" said John Graham, looking at his sister angrily.

But you didn't want it," answered Mary. "I've brought it home before you generally go out with it."

"I'll make you know how you meddle with my things, you little minx!" and so saying, the wretched youth gave her a slap across the face. "There, take that," cried he;" and when next you take anything of mine you shall have two.'

Mary was just going to remind her brother that he had already crippled Eddy, in all probability for life; but she held her tongue, although her large tears plainly showed how bitterly she felt this. The rest of the time that John Graham stayed in the room he did not utter a word, and at last he took his departure in silence. But he was not happy. It is true he had his morning dram, and took a drop more than usual to help to put him in good humour; but he could not help feeling that he had just done a cowardly act in striking his sister, and conscience reminded him that he had already cruelly injured his brother; but such thoughts were troublesome, and John Graham accordingly turned into the next public-house, and took a second glass to drown dull care and smother his conscience. This he succeeded in doing for

a while, but it was only for a while; the day of reckoning was certainly to come.

The blow which Mary Graham had received left its marks very visibly upon her face, and when her brother came home, he saw that her eye was blackened! He was too proud, however, to take any notice of it, and he continued just as sulky as he had been. before. Nor was he any better the next day, or the day after; in fact, from this out, he seemed determined to lead her as wretched a life as he had done Eddy. Had it not been for her trust in God, Mary Graham could not have borne up under the trials she had to undergo; but that trust never failed her. True, she was only a simple child, and knew very little, but that little she made good use of, and she almost realized comfort in casting herself on God. The more her brother turned against her, the more she prayed her heavenly Father to befriend her, and she had grace to bear her hard lot without murmuring, although she shed many a bitter tear.

A kinder home than her brother's was prepared, however, for Mary Graham; and she soon escaped from the tyranny which rapidly had grown worse and worse.

It was dusk in the evening when John Graham, not quite sober, came home, a few days after Eddy had been taken to the hospital, and he had scarcely entered the garret

before he began quarrelling with his sister. She knew that there was no good in remonstrating with him, so she very meekly continued at what she was about; but this quietness on her part only served to exasperate him more and more, until at last he seized her by the arm, and began to shake her with all his might. "I'll make you speak, you sulky thing," cried he; "I'll put a little life into you, that I will," and he squeezed her arm so tightly that she was compelled to cry out. "Oh, you can cry out, can you? Then you shall have something to cry for;" and he prepared to give her what he called a regular good thrashing. Mary Graham stood trembling in the corner of the room, not knowing to what length her brother would go; for now that his blood was up, he seemed ready for anything; but help was at hand from a very unexpected source. A heavy step was heard upon the stairs; it had passed the floor beneath theirs, and was evidently coming up; and, in a moment or two, the coalheaver made his appearance. He saw at a glance how matters stood; and Mary Graham's terrified look, and her brother's red and angry cheek, told him that this was no child's play that was going on. Tim Dobbin was not a man of many words, and in his eyes to strike a woman was an offence for which no possible excuse could be made, so he

prepared to take Mary Graham's part at

once.

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Easy," said Tim, laying his big hand upon John Graham's shoulder; "sit down, my man; I won't stand this here whacking of a woman, and look on without lending her a hand.”

"And who are you?" said John Graham, looking at the coal heaver with mingled anger and surprise.

"It don't matter much who I am," answered Tim Dobbin; "but sit thee down, or I'll make thee.'

"Make me!" ejaculated the drunkard. "Get out of this room; you have no business here. Who asked you to come here?"

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It don't matter much who asked me,' replied Tim, very coolly; "but sit thee down, or I'll make thee."

"Come, walk out of this," cried John Graham, angrily," or I'll make you!"

"Make me!" replied the coalheaver, with rather a merry twinkling of the eye; "we'll see; if anybody makes, I think 'tis I'll make thee."

John Graham, being excited both by drink and passion, cared very little what he did; so snatching up the poker, he aimed a blow at the coalheaver which might have done him serious injury, but that he parried it very dexterously with the butt end of his whip.

H