Another year has gone by, but it has been a year of continued hard work, of unrealized expectations, of unfulfilled hopes. The climax is reached now, and she stands in the witness-box to bear unwilling evidence against him. The public-house, the fell destroyer of children’s prospects, had proved the destruction of her maternal hopes. It is an old story, but a common one. His twenty-first birthday had arrived at last, and the men in the workshop had asked him to stand treat; he had not much money, but his little was added to theirs, and drink was sent for and the lad forgot his mother. The day’s work being over, they all adjourned to a public-house, and on his twenty-first birthday, late at night, the lad reeled home--drunk. The widow had prepared a nice little supper, but it was untasted; he lay on the hearthrug the night through. The widow sat on her chair, and her feet supported the boy’s head. This was the beginning of a year of misery, for in the delights of drink and the fascination of the public-house he forgot his boyish aspirations and his chivalrous intentions. His wages were not given to relieve his mother’s toil and to gladden his mother’s heart, for drunkenness became a common occurrence. Last night he came home very late and very drunk, but the widow was waiting up for him. A knife and some bread and cheese were on the little table in their small room. He did not want any supper, he wanted more drink. There was none in the house; he would go out and get some. Placing her back to the door, the widow endeavoured to prevent him. He did not know what he was doing, and took hold of the knife. There was a struggle, and the widow’s arm was badly cut. She screamed, and a policeman and others came in. Seeing the mother covered with blood and the son in a stupid, dazed way holding the knife, he was taken into custody and charged with wounding his mother. In giving her evidence the widow palpably perjured herself; it was transparent. She declared it was an accident, and happened as she tried to take the knife from him. The magistrate saw through it, but there was no other evidence. When the widow had given her evidence she came out of the witness-box and threw herself before the magistrate, calling out: ‘Don’t send him to prison! Don’t send him to prison! He’s a good lad, only for the drink.’ Her testimony of her boy was true, but alas! it is true of many. Home after home I have visited; parent after parent I have tried to comfort; again and again I have heard the wail: ‘A good lad! a good lad, only for the drink!’ The public-house is the limbo of unrealized parental hopes and the execution-ground of filial chivalry.