and did not visit Cedarville again for a year.





NIGHT THE SECOND.

THE CHANGES OF A YEAR.


A cordial grasp of the hand and a few words of hearty welcome
greeted me as I alighted from the stage at the "Sickle and Sheaf,"
on my next visit to Cedarville. At the first glance, I saw no
change in the countenance, manner, or general bearing of Simon
Slade, the landlord. With him, the year seemed to have passed like
a pleasant summer day. His face was round, and full, and rosy, and
his eyes sparkled with that good humor which flows from intense
self-satisfaction. Everything about him seemed to say--"All 'right
with myself and the world."

I had scarcely expected this. From what I saw during my last brief
sojourn at the "Sickle and Sheaf," the inference was natural, that
elements had been called into activity, which must produce changes
adverse to those pleasant states of mind that threw an almost
perpetual sunshine over the landlord's countenance. How many
hundreds of times had I thought of Tom Morgan and Willy Hammond--
of Frank, and the temptations to which a bar-room exposed him. The
heart of Slade must, indeed, be as hard as one of his old mill-
stones, if he could remain an unmoved witness of the corruption