Had Jean Thorn been less interested in the family of Damon Crowley she might have thought it impossible to keep track of them as they moved about. Mr. Crowley reformed every time he got drunk, and got drunk every time he reformed. At such times he made the living place he called home, whether in the filthy garret or rickety shanty, a bedlam. At the present period of their existence the Crowleys were living in a forlorn hovel on the outskirts of the city. Mr. Crowley thought himself lucky if he chanced to be about when one of Miss Thorn's visits took place, for she paid well for the plain work Mrs. Crowley did, and he always came in for a share. The time had been when this man would have blushed at the thought of asking his wife, or, indeed, any one, for help, but that time had gradually gone by as his manhood dissolved itself in drink. Now he could whine and beg and, not being successful that way, curse and beat to gain his end. He wanted money for whisky worse than ever now, and had less, but the burning in his stomach grew no less to suit the impoverished condition of his purse. The disease caused by the legalized drink traffic was eating his life away little by little, and as the fire burned it called for more fuel. One night when every little gland and fibre in his whole being and all the great ulcers in his diseased stomach seemed like fierce flames cutting and licking and torturing him, half-drunk, he staggered from one grog shop to another, begging for something to drink. He had hung around the shanty home until he was almost sure that Miss Thorn would not come, then had started out to try his chances. He had begged a little, had pawned a garment belonging to another for a little more, and yet the maddening thirst was not quenched. It was growing late. He made a circuit of his old haunts, but it was useless--no money, no drink. For his pleading he was mocked. For his curses he was struck and put out. He staggered toward home, the stinging fire within him quickening his pace. One hope remained. Perhaps Miss Thorn had been there after he had gone. Perhaps, hidden away in the little box, he might find a few pennies--enough for this time. The houses that he passed were for the most part dark, except where some low place cast its straggling light into the night. He hurried on, stumbling now and then. No time could be more suitable for him. He would find the family, what there was left of it, asleep. He would sneak in like a cat and find the box--perhaps the pennies. He rubbed his hot hands nervously together in anticipation.