"Yes."

"Then rouse up and have a warm glass."

Tom got upon his feet and steadied himself.

"No; I won't drink any more to-night."

"It won't hurt you, Tom--just one glass."

"I know it won't!" said Tom, buttoning up his coat by the solitary
button left. "I know it won't!"

And with this he went out into the chill air of midnight. When he got
away from the shadow of the tavern, he stopped and looked up at the
stars, and then he looked down upon the earth.

"Aye," he muttered, grinding his heel in the gravel, "Peter Tindar is
taking the kernel, and leaving poor Ellen the worthless husk,--a husk
more than worthless! and I am helping him do it. I am robbing my wife
of joy, robbing my dear children of honor and comfort, and robbing
myself of love and life--just that Peter Tindar may have the kernel,
and Ellen the husk! We'll see!"

It was a revelation to the man. The tavern-keeper's speech, not meant
for his ears, had come on his senses as fell the voice of the Risen
One upon Saul of Tarsus.

"We'll see!" he said, setting his foot firmly upon the ground; and
then he wended his way homeward.