Joe, having rubbed the water and charcoal from his face with a huge jack-towel, went to the wash-tub, and imprinted a hearty kiss on Mary's rosy lips, which she considerately held up for the purpose of being saluted. He was about to do the same to the rosebud, when Mary stopped him with an energetic "Don't!" "W'y not, Molly?" asked the obedient man. "'Cause you'll wake her up." Thus put down, Joe seated himself humbly on a sea-chest, and began to pull off his wet boots. "It's bin a bad fire, I think," said Mary, glancing at her husband. "Rather. A beer-shop in Whitechapel. House of five rooms burnt out, and the roof off." "You look tired, Joe," said Mary. "I _am_ a bit tired, but an hour's rest will put me all to rights. That's the third fire I've bin called to to-night; not that I think much about that, but the last one has bin a stiff one, an' I got a fall or two that nigh shook the wind out o' me." "Have something to eat, Joe," said Mary, in a sympathetic tone. "No thankee, lass; I need sleep more than meat just now." "A glass of beer, then," urged Mary, sweeping the soap suds off her pretty arms and hands, and taking up a towel. The fireman shook his head, as he divested himself of his coat and neckcloth. "Do, Joe," entreated Mary; "I'm sure it will do you good, and no one could say that you broke through your principles, considerin' the condition you're in." Foolish Mary! she was young and inexperienced, and knew not the danger of tempting her husband to drink. She only knew that hundreds of first-rate, sober, good, trustworthy men took a glass of beer now and then without any evil result following, and did not think that her Joe ran the slightest risk in doing the same. But Joe knew his danger. His father had died a drunkard. He had listened to earnest men while they told of the bitter curse that drinking had been to thousands, that to some extent the tendency to drink was hereditary, and that, however safe some natures might be while moderately indulging, there were other natures to which moderate drinking was equivalent to getting on those rails which, running down a slight incline at first--almost a level-- gradually pass over a steep descent, where brakes become powerless, and end at last in total destruction. "I don't require beer, Molly," said Dashwood with a smile, as he retired into the large closet; "at my time o' life a man must be a miserable, half-alive sort o' critter, if he can't git along without Dutch courage. The sight o' your face and May's there, is better than a stiff glass o' grog to me any day. It makes me feel stronger than the stoutest man in the brigade. Good night, lass, or good mornin'. I must make the most o' my time. There's no sayin' how soon the next call may come. Seems to me as if people was settin' their houses alight on purpose to worry us."