He left her at her door with a kiss and a laugh, and turned to go home. In the next street he passed a public-house. He stopped, he hesitated, he felt in his pocket, he went in and had a go, just a single go--Lily would never find out--of Scotch, cold. Then he went home and played at practising shorthand for an hour. He had promised his Lily. She should see how well he could keep his promise. III. "It is good of you to come, my dear. Of course, I understand that it is all over now. It must be. It is not in nature that you should keep him on any longer. But I thought you would see my poor boy once more." It was Charley's mother who spoke. He was the only son of a widow. "Oh, yes, I came--I came," Lily replied, tearfully. "But what is the good? He will promise everything again. How many times has he repented and promised--and promised?" "My poor boy! And we were so proud of him, weren't we, dear?" said the mother, wiping away a tear. "He was going to do such great things with his cleverness and his speaking. And now--I have seen it coming on, my dear, for a year and more, but I durstn't speak to you. When he came home night after night with a glassy eye and a husky voice, when he reeled across the room, at first I pretended not to notice it. A man mustn't be nagged or shamed, must he? Then I spoke in the morning, and he promised to pull himself up." "He will promise--ah! yes--he will promise." "If you could only forgive him he might keep his promise." Lily shook her head doubtfully. "I went to the office this morning, my dear. They have been expecting it for weeks. The head clerk warned him. It was known that he had fallen into bad company--in the city they don't like spouters. And when he came back after his dinner he was so tipsy that he fell along. They just turned him out on the spot." "Mother," said Lily, "it's like this. I can't help forgiving him. We two must forgive him, whatever he does. We love him, you see, that's what it is." "Yes, dear, yes." "It isn't the poor, tipsy boy we love, but the real boy--the clever boy behind. We must forgive him. But"--her lips quivered--"I cannot marry him. Do not ask me to do that unless--what will never happen--he reforms altogether." "If you would, dear, I think he might keep straight. If you were always with him to watch him." "I could not be always with him. And besides, mother, think what might happen as well. Would you have me bring into the world children whose lives would make me wretched by a drunken father? And how should we live? Because, you see, if I marry I must give up my place." The mother sighed. "Charley is in his own room," she said, "I will send him to you."