Temperance movement had reached these
secluded vales at last, where it was only too
much wanted; and so retired had been the
life of the family of the High House, that
they had not even heard of it. They heard
much of it now; for Backhouse had sold a
good many ribbons and gay shawls among
members who were about to attend
Temperance festivals. When he told of processions,
and bands of music, and public tea-
drinkings, and speeches, and clapping, with
plenty of laughter, and here and there even
dancing, or a pic-nic on a mountain, Janet
thought it the gayest news she had ever
heard. Here would be change, and society,
and amusement for her husband— not only
without danger, but with the very object of
securing him from danger. Raven was so
heartily willing, that the whole household
made a grand day of it— labourer, cowboy,
and all. The cows were milked early, and
for once left for a few hours. The house
was shut up, the children carried down by
father and mother; and, after a merry afternoon,
the whole party came home, pledged
teetotallers.

This event made a great change in Raven's
life. He could go down among his old
acquaintances now, for he considered himself a
safe man; and Janet could encourage his
going, and be easy about his return; for she,
too, considered all danger over. Both were
deceived as to the kind and degree of safety
caused by a vow.

The vow was good, in as far as it prevented
the introduction of drink at home, and gave
opportunity for the smell, and the habit, and
the thought of drink to die out. It was good
as a reason for refusing when a buyer or seller,
down in the vale, to seal a bargain with a
dram. It was good as keeping all knowledge
of drinking from the next generation in the
house. It was good as giving a man character
in the eyes of his neighbours and his pastor.
But, was it certainly and invariably good in
every crisis of temptation? Would it act as
a charm when a weak man— a man weak in
health, weak in old associations, weak in self-
respect— should find himself in a merry
company of old comrades, with fumes of grog
rising on every side, intoxicating his mind
before a drop had passed his lips? Raven
came to know, as many have learned before
him, that self-restraint is too serious a thing
to be attained at a skip, in a moment, by
taking an oath; and that reform must have
gone deeper, and risen higher, than any
process of sudden conversion, before a man
should venture upon a vow; and in such a
case, a vow is not needed. And if a man is
not strong enough for the work of moral
restraint, his vow may become a snare, and
plunge him into two sins instead of one. A
Temperance pledge is an admirable convenience
for the secure; but it must always
be doubtful whether it will prove a safeguard
or a snare to the infirm. If they trust wholly
to it, it will, too probably, become a snare—
and thus it was with poor Raven. When the
Temperance lecturer was gone, and the festival
was over, and the flags were put away, and
the enthusiasm passed, while his descents
among his old companions were continued,
without fear or precaution, he was in
circumstances too hard for a vow, the newness of
which had faded. He hardly knew how it
happened. He was, as the neighbours said,
"overcome." His senses once opened to the
old charm, the seven devils of drink rushed
into the swept and garnished house, and the
poor sinner was left in a worse state than ever
before.

Far worse; for now his self-respect was
utterly gone. There is no need to dwell on
the next years,—the increase of the
mortgage, the decrease of the stock,—the
dilapidation of house, barn, and stable,—the
ill-health and discomfort at home, and the
growing moroseness of him who caused the
misery.

No more festivals now! no talk to the
children of future dances! and so few
purchases of Backhouse, that he ceased to come,
and the household were almost in rags. No
more going to church, therefore, for anybody!
When the wind was in the right quarter for
bringing to the uplands the din-dinning of the
chapel bell, Janet liked to hear it, though it
was no summons to her to listen to the
promises. The very sound revived the promises
in her mind. But what could she make of
them now? An incident, unspeakably fearful
to her, suddenly showed her how she ought
to view them. The eldest girl was nursing
her idiot brother's head in her lap while the
younger children were at play, when the poor
fellow nestled closer to her.

"Poor Dan!" said she. "You can't play
about, and be merry, like the others: but I
will always take care of you, poor Dan!"

Little Willy heard this, and stopped his
play. In another moment his face flushed,
his eyes flashed, he clenched his hands, he
even stamped, as he cried out,

"Mother, it's too bad! Why did God
make Dan different from the rest?"

His panic-stricken mother clapped her
hand over his mouth. But this was no
answer to his question. She thought she
must be a wicked mother, that a child of
hers should ask such a question as that. It
was not often that she wept; but she wept
sorely now. It brought her back to the old
lesson of the seed-time and harvest. The
promise here, too, failed, because the
conditions were not fulfilled. The hope had been
broken by a collision with the great natural
laws, under which alone all promise can be
fulfilled. But how explain this to Willy?
How teach him that the Heavenly Father had
made Dan as noble a little fellow as ever was
seen, and that it was his own father there
that had made him an idiot?

When Raven came in, he could not but see