her state; and he happened to be in so mild
a mood, that she ventured to tell him what
her terror and sorrow were about. He was
dumb for a time. Then he began to say that
he was bitterly punished for what was no
habit of his, but that he vowed——

"No, no— don't vow!" said his wife, more
alarmed than ever. She put her arm round
his neck, and whispered into his ear,
"I dare not hear you vow any more. You
know how often—- You know you had better
not. I dare not hear you promise any more."

He loosened her arm from his neck, and
called Willy to him. He held the frightened
boy between his knees, and looked him full in
the face, while he said,

"Willy, you must not say that God made
Dan an idiot. God is very good, and I am
very bad. I made Dan an idiot."

The stare with which Willy heard this was
too much for his mother. She rushed
upstairs and threw herself upon the bed, where
she was heard long afterwards sobbing as if
her heart would break.

"Father," said Willy, timidly, but curiously,
"did you make mother cry too?"

"Yes, Willy, I did. It is all my doing."

"Then I think you are very wicked."

"So I am— very wicked. Take care that
you are not. Take care you are never
wicked."

"That I will. I can't bear that mother should
cry."

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

Janet did all she could to arrest the ruin
which all saw to be inevitable. Her great
piece of success was the training she gave to
her eldest daughter, little Sally. By the
time she was twelve years old, she was the
most efficient person in the house. Without
her, they could hardly have kept their last
remaining cow; and many a time she set her
mother at liberty to attend upon her father
and protect him, when otherwise the children
must have engrossed her. There was no
cowboy now; and her mother too often
filled the place of the labourer, when the
sowing or reaping season would otherwise
have passed away unused. It was a thing
unheard of in the district that a woman
should work in the fields; but what else
could be done ? Raven's wasted and trembling
limbs were unequal to the work alone; and,
little as he could do at best, he could always
do his best when his wife was helping him.
So Sally took care of poor Dan and the
four younger ones, and made the oaten bread
with Willy's help, and boiled the potatoes,
and milked and fed the cow, and knitted, at
all spare minutes; for there was no prospect
of stockings for anybody, in the bitter winter,
but from the knitting done at home. The
children had learned to be thankful now,
when they could eat their oat bread and
potatoes in peace. They seldom had anything
else; and they wanted nothing else when
they could eat that without terror. But
their father was now sometimes mad. It was
a particular kind of madness, which they had
heard the doctor call by a long name (delirium
tremens), and they thought it must be the
most terrible kind of all, though it always
went off, after a fit of it, which might last
from a day to a week. The doctor had said
that it would not always go off—that he would
die in one of the attacks. The dread was lest
he should kill somebody else before that day
came; for he was as ungovernable as any
man in Bedlam at those times, and fearfully
strong, though so weak before and after them.

When it was possible, the children went
down into the valley, and sent up strong men
to hold him; but if the weather was stormy
or if their father was in the way, they could
only go and hide themselves out of his sight,
among the rocks in the beck, or up in the
loft, or somewhere; and then they knew
what their mother must be suffering with
him. By degrees they had scarcely any
furniture left whole but their heavy old-
fashioned bedsteads. The last of their crockery
was broken by his overturning the lame old
table at which they had been dining. Then
their mother said, with a sigh, that they must
somehow manage to buy some things before
winter. There really was nothing now for
any of them to eat out of. She must get
some wooden trenchers and tin mugs; for she
would have no more crockery. But how to
get the money! for the whole of the land was
mortgaged now.

A little money was owing for oats when
November arrived; and the purchaser had
sent word that he should be at a certain sale
in Langdale, at Martinmas; and that if
Raven should be there, they could then settle
accounts. Now, this money had been
destined to go as far as it would towards the
payment of interest due at Christmas. But
if Raven went to the sale (the usual occasions
for social meetings in the Lake district, in
spring and autumn), he would only waste or
lose the money. He had long ceased to
bring home any money, unless his wife was
with him; and then it was she that brought
it, and, if possible, without his knowledge.
She must go with him, and lay out the money
immediately, in necessaries for the house and
the children, before her husband could make
away with it, in a worse way than if he threw
it into the sea.

They went, at dawn, in a clear cold November
day. Raven had taken care of himself
for a day or two, aware of the importance of
the occasion, and anxious not to disable
himself for the first social meeting he had enjoyed
for long, and thinking, in spite of himself, of
the glasses of spirits which are, unhappily,
handed round very often indeed at these
country sales. As the walk was an arduous
one for an infirm man, and the days were
short, and the sale was to last two days, the
children were to be left for one night.
Oatmeal and potatoes enough were left out for