but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. Gin Lane's the
nearest road to the churchyard."

"It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I
care not," retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused
into sudden eloquence. "To those who, like me, have never been able to
get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a
refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. The spirit I drink may
be poison,--it may kill me,--perhaps it _is_ killing me:--but so would
hunger, cold, misery,--so would my own thoughts. I should have gone mad
without it. Gin is the poor man's friend,--his sole set-off against the
rich man's luxury. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. It may be
treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present
happiness, and that is sufficient. When I have traversed the streets a
houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have
solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought
shelter,--when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched
my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,--or, worse
than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible
temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,--when I
have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of
this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt.
Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to
me, and I have fancied myself happy,--as happy as I am now." And she
burst into a wild hysterical laugh.

"Poor creature!" ejaculated Wood. "Do you call this frantic glee
happiness?"

"It's all the happiness I have known for years," returned the widow,