On Herbert’s farm, however, there was a look of decay. The yellow corn and golden pumpkins were yet in the field; the apples lay in heaps upon the ground; the gates swung loosely in the wind; while the horses, uncared for and unfed, neighed piteously in their stalls as if asking why they were thus neglected. Alas! their master was a drunkard. Anna was a drunkard’s wife; and mine a drunkard’s home! It was no longer a secret there, and the old men shook their heads, while the young men sighed to think how he had fallen. Night after night we sat up for him, my sister and I lifting him from the threshold across which he would fall, and bearing him to his bed, where we would lay him beside his innocent son, whose blue eyes often opened with wonder at being thus disturbed. A night’s debauch was always followed by a day of weakness and debility, in which he was incapable of exertion, and so everything seemed on the verge of ruin, when he suddenly conceived the idea of advertising for an efficient man, who would take the entire charge of affairs and relieve him from all care. About this time I went back to Meadow Brook for a few weeks to be present at the bridal of my oldest sister. Anna, too, was urged to accompany me, but she declined, extorting from me a promise that if it were possible I would not divulge the real state of things. “Tell them I am happy and do not regret what I have done,” said she, as she followed me down to the gate. “And would that be true?” I asked, looking her in the face. For an instant she hesitated, while her pale cheeks flushed and the tears started to her eyes; then glancing at little Jamie, whom she held in her arms, she answered, “Yes, it would be true. I do not regret it. I had rather be Herbert’s wife as he is, than not to have been his wife at all.”