I did so, as well as the ladies near me, and saw that Mrs. Gordon
was looking anxiously at one of her sons, who was filling his glass
for, it might be, the second or third time.

"It is no place for that young man," one of them remarked. "I pity
his mother. Tom is a fine fellow at heart, and has a bright mind;
but he is falling into habits that will, I fear, destroy him. I
think he has too much self-respect to visit bar-rooms frequently;
but an occasion like this gives him a liberty that is freely used to
his hurt. It is all very respectable; and the best people set an
example he is too ready to follow."

I heard no more, but that was quite enough to give my nerves a new
shock and fill my heart with a new disquietude. A few minutes
afterwards I found myself at the side of Mrs. Gordon. To a remark
that I made she answered in an absent kind of way, as though the
meaning of what I said did not reach her thought. She looked past
me; I followed her eyes with mine, and saw her youngest boy, not yet
eighteen, with a glass of champagne to his lips. He was drinking
with a too apparent sense of enjoyment. The sigh that passed the
mother's lips smote my ears with accusation. "Mrs. Carleton!" A
frank, cheery voice dropped into my ear. It was that of Albert
Martindale, the son of my friend. He was handsome, and had a free,
winning manner. I saw by the flush in his cheeks, and the gleam in
his eyes, that wine had already quickened the flow of blood in his
veins.

"You are enjoying yourself," I said.

"Oh, splendidly!" then bending to my ear, he added.--"You've given