CHAPTER XX.

THE SINS OF THE FATHER TRANSMITTED TO THE CHILD.

The fog had hung dark and gloomy over San Francisco for some days and things about the mansion had been, gloomier still, for Earnest had been on a spree of unusuai length, during which time the family, and even the servants, had stood in mortal fear and dread of him. But this morning, in which our chapter begins, the sun rose brightly; and little Earnie, whose irrepressible spirit had been making the halls and corridors ring with childish glee, came rushing into his mother's room and joyfully exclaimed: "Oh, mamma! Our papa is in ze brekfas room an he is sober, he is; say, mamma, he let me climb on his knee and tomb his turls, he did. Oh, mamma, isn't our papa nice?" Marie clasped the happy little fellow, to her bosom and replied: "Yes, darling, mamma thinks your papa nice. There goes the breakfast bell. Let us hasten below for Auntie Ruth is coming to-day."

The little fellow gave a glad shout and away he went on his crutch, while his mother joined him in a happy chase.

Marie hesitatingly opened the door; and sure enough, her husband, for once in his life, had preceded her into the breakfast room and looked up as she entered with a pleasant "Good-morning." Adjusting the curtain so as to let the beautiful sunlight stream into the room, she came and stood by him in the old familiar way and twined her fingers in the brown curls that clustered upon his brow. Earnest looked up into her face, and she saw a strange

look in his eyes. Feeling some fear, she merely bowed her head and imprinted a kiss upon his forehead and took her seat at the table. "Oh, papa!" exclaimed Earnie, "my Auntie Ruth is tumin to-day, her is! Won't that be jolly, papa?"

Earnest Stocklaid did not heed his child's words, but seemed to be lost in thought. At length Marie said: "Come, husband, your coffee is getting cold. Do you not wish for breakfast this morning?" Still he did not speak, but got up and wandered aimlessly about the room.

Mrs. Stocklaid did not understand his mood, but had grown used to any spell that might possess him, and did not press him for a reason as to his feelings. She and Earnie ate their breakfast in silence.

After a time he snatched up his hat as if in a hurry and rushed out of the house and then downtown, as was his usual habit. Soon as Marie had arisen from the table, she ordered the carriage to be sent for Ruth. A messenger had brought Ruth's card the evening before announcing her arrival at the Palace Hotel. In a way she dreaded the arrival of her old friend an demploye, for the thought of presenting little Earnie with his deformed body seemed dreadful to her. In the years gone by, even before she had consented to become the wife of Earnest Stocklaid, Ruth had warned her what posterity might become from such a union. It was a regret to present him as he was. She mastered her pride, however, and led the little man into the room and introduced him to her guest.

Ruth Mansfield took the boy upon her knee and looked tenderly into his brown eyes. She caressed his high, noble brow with the wealth of chestnut curls clustering about it, and then covering the birthmark with her handkerchief, pressed a kiss upon the little rosebud mouth just as he whispered: "My Auntie Ruth." The ordeal was over

and Marie threw her arms about the girl and sobbed upon her bosom.

"Oh, Ruth," she said, "you told me how it would be and I might have saved my child from such a fate; but I would not listen. Tell me, how can my darling boy go through life with that blight upon him?"

Ruth took the hand that was extended to her, the same one that had so often been withdrawn in disdain, and affectionately pressed it to her lips. "Marie, dear, fear not for your boy's outward affliction, for this might have come to him from any other source than through his father, but, Marie, the blood of a drunkard surges through his veins and it is the appetite and proclivities of the child over which you need to lament; it is the spirit, not the flesh."

Marie gathered her son to her bosom and tenderly caressed him ere she spoke. "Ruth," she said, "how can a spirit so lovely and gentle as that of my child be anything but good? Think you that I have any cause to fear?"

Ruth paused for a moment as if to get her thoughts in order, for what she wished to speak about was for the future benefit of this tender, loving mother. Then she began: "Marie, did you ever think what sort of a child his father must have been?"

"Oh, yes," Marie had thought of it, and taking her companion by the hand, led her to a portrait that hung in full life size upon the walls of the drawing room. There was a merry, laughing boy, just brimming full of mischief, whose very soul was in his eyes as he looked back at them from the canvas. The exact counterpart of the child that now clung to Ruth's finger-one would almost suppose it to be the same.

"And this was Earnest, Marie?"

"Yes, dear; don't you think my son bears a striking resemblance to his father?”

"Yes, it is a very remarkable one and I do not wonder that you are such a devoted mother, for no such reproduction could have been except through your perfect love for its progenitor. Thus you see, dear mother, that this little spirit, the offspring of perfect love, is of God; and God is good, not evil. It is only children begotten without love whose very existence but tends toward darkness instead of light. So you see, Marie, that you have much to build upon in the character of your child." She pointed to the portrait and said: "That merry, laughing boy who seems as you look at him so angelic and pure, even he, the father of your child, fell and became a drunkard. Can you hope for anything better in Earnie?"

Marie caught her son to her bosom, while a wave of agonizing grief swept over her soul, and she cried: "Oh, Ruth! I love my child, but rather than see him as his father is I would gladly give him up to the grave. Tell me, what can I do to save him from such a wretched life?"

"Set your fortifications around his weakness, Marie, and begin to build up character in him that he may be able to withstand temptation. Your work must be 'precept upon precept, precept upon precept; line upon line, line upon line; here a little, and there a little,' according to the instructions given by the grand old prophet, Isaiah, who has indeed shown us by his teachings just how to fortify the generations against the curse of drink."

Winding her arms about Ruth, Marie led her back to her seat and in a spirit of unutterable tenderness, said: "Dear Ruth, I am so glad you have come! You have ever been my good angel and had I listened to your kind, motherly counsel what a world of sorrow I should have been saved. But, dear one, my life is not yet all lived,