"It is very pleasant to see him so often," John said, "but how good it is
to have you all to myself!"

Helen gave him a swift, glad look; then their talk drifted into those
sweet remembrances which happy husbands and wives know by heart: what he
thought when he first saw her, how she wondered if he would speak to her.
"And oh, Helen," he said, "I recollect the dress you wore,--how soft and
silky it was, but it never rustled, or gleamed; it rested my eyes just to
look at it."

A little figure was coming towards them down the deserted street, with a
jug clasped in two small grimy hands.

"Preacher!" cried a childish voice eagerly, "good-evenin', preacher."

John stopped and bent down to see who it was, for a tangle of yellow hair
almost hid the little face.

"Why, it is Molly," he said, in his pleasant voice. "Where have you been,
my child? Oh, yes, I see,--for dad's beer?"

Molly was smiling at him, proud to be noticed. "Yes, preacher," she
answered, wagging her head. "Good-night, preacher." But they had gone
only a few steps when there was a wail. Turning her head to watch him out
of sight, Molly had tripped, and now all that was left of the beer was a
yellow scum of froth on the dry ground. The jug was unbroken, but the
child could find no comfort in that.

"I've spilt dad's beer," she said, sobbing, and sinking down in a forlorn