"Good water, that," he said. "Nothing like water. Mean to stick to water in future--water and tea. Lily, I've made up my mind. For the next six months I shall give up speaking, though it's against my interests. Shorthand and French in the evening. By that time I shall get a post worth a hundred--ay, a hundred and twenty--pounds a year, if I'm lucky, and we'll get married and all live together and be as happy as the day is long. You shall never repent your wedding-day, my dear. I shall keep you like a lady. Oh, we will have a splendid time." At ten o'clock Lily rose to go home. He sprang to his feet and took his hat and went. "No, no," he said. "Let you go alone? Not if I know it." She laid her hand on his arm once more, and tried to believe that his promise would be kept this time. He led her home, head in air, gallant and brave. At the door he kissed her. "Good-night, my dear," he said. "You know you can trust me. Haven't I promised?" On the way home he passed a public-house. The craving came back to him, and the tightness of his throat and the yearning of his heart; his footsteps were drawn and dragged toward the door. At eleven o'clock his mother, who was waiting up for him, heard him bumping and tumbling about the stairs on his way up. He came in--his eyes fishy, his voice thick. "Saw her home," he said. "Good girl, Lily. Made--(hic)--faithful promise--we are going to have--splendid time!" IV. The two women stood outside the prison doors. At eight o'clock their man would be released; the son of one, the lover of the other. The elder woman looked frail and bowed, her face was full of trouble--the kind of trouble that nothing can remove. The younger woman stood beside her on the pavement; she was thinner, and her cheeks were pale; in her eyes, too, you could read abiding trouble. "We will take him home between us," said the girl. "Not a word of reproach. He has sinned and suffered. We must forgive. Oh, we cannot choose but forgive!" Alas! the noble boy--the clever boy she loved--was further off than ever. He who loses a place and his character with it never gets another berth. This is a rule in the city. We talk of retrieving character and getting back to work. Neither the one nor the other event ever comes off. The wretch who is in this hapless plight begins the weary search for employment in hope. How it ends varies with his temperament or with the position of his friends. All day long he climbs stairs, puts his head into offices, and asks if a clerk is wanted. No clerk is wanted. Then he comes down the stairs and climbs others, and asks the same question and gets the same reply. If ever a clerk is wanted a character is wanted with him; and when the character includes the qualification of drink, as well as of zeal and ability, the owner is told that he may move on.