"Where are the friends that to me were so dear, Long, long ago--long, long ago? Where are the hopes that my heart used to cheer, Long, long ago--long ago! Friends that I loved in the grave are laid low, Hopes that I cherished are fled from me now, I am degraded, for rum was my foe Long, long ago--long ago! "Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head, Long, long ago--long, long ago. Oh! how I wept when I knew she was dead! Long, long ago--long ago. She was an angel! my love and my guide! Vainly to save me from ruin she tried; Poor, broken-hearted! 'twas well that she died Long, long ago--long ago. "Let me look back on the days of my youth, Long, long ago--long, long ago, I was no stranger to virtue and truth, Long, long ago--long ago. Oh! for the hopes that were pure as the day! Oh! for the joys that were purer than they! Oh! for the hours that I've squandered away Long, long ago--long ago." The silence that pervaded the room when the old man's voice died, or might rather be said, sobbed away, was as the silence of death. His own heart was touched, for he wiped his eyes, from which tears had started. Pausing scarcely a moment, he moved slowly from the room, and left his audience to their own reflections. There was not one of them who was not more or less affected; but the deepest impression had been made on the heart of Edwards. The song seemed as if it had been made for him. The second verse, particularly, went thrilling to the very centre of his feelings. "Sadly my wife bowed her beautiful head!" How suddenly arose before him the sorrow-stricken form of the wife of his youth at these words! and when the old man's voice faltered on the line-- "Poor, broken-hearted! 'twas well that she died!" the anguish of his spirit was so great, that he only kept himself from sobbing aloud by a strong effort at self-control. Ere the spell was broken, or a word uttered by any one, he arose and left the house. For many minutes after her father's departure, Mary sat weeping bitterly. She felt hopeless and deserted. Tenderly did she love her parent; but this love was only a source of the keenest anguish, for she saw him swiftly passing along the road to destruction without the power to save him. Grief wastes itself by its own violence. So it was in this instance. The tears of Mary were at length dried; her sobs were hushed, and she was about rising from her chair, when a blinding flash of lightning glared into the room, followed instantly by a deafening jar of thunder. "Oh, if father were home!" she murmured, clasping her hands together. Even while she stood in this attitude, the door opened quietly, and Mr. Edwards entered. "I thought you would be afraid, Mary; and so I came home," said he in a kind voice. Mary looked at him with surprise. This was soon changed to joy as she perceived that he was perfectly sober.