For nearly half an hour did Graves pace the floor backwards and forwards, his mind in a wild fever of excitement. In vain did he try, over and over again, to argue the point against the clearest and strongest convictions of reason. Look at it as he would, it all resolved itself into that one bold and startling position, that he was in league with hell against his fellow-men. "And now, what shall I do?" was the question that arose in his mind. "Give up my establishment?" At that moment, Sandy, the bar-tender, opened the parlour door, and said with a broad smile-- "The Sub-Treasury is working wonders again! I'm overrun, and want help." "I can't come down, just now, Sandy. I'm not very well. You will have to get along the best you can," Graves replied. "I don't know what I shall do then, sir: I can't make 'em half as fast as they are called for." "Let half of the people go away then," was the cold reply. "I can't help you any more to-day." Sandy thought, as he withdrew, that the "old man" must have suddenly lost his senses. He was confirmed in this idea before the next morning. It was past twelve o'clock when the run of custom was over, and Sandy closed up for the night. As soon as this was done, Mr. Graves came in for the first time since dinner. "It's been a glorious day for business," Sandy said, rubbing his hands. "I've taken in more, than thirty dollars. Lucifer himself must have put the idea into your head." "No doubt he did," was the grave reply. Sandy stared at this. "Didn't you tell me that Bill Riley had joined the temperance society?" "Yes, I did," replied the bar-keeper. "Are you sure?" "I am sure, I was told so by one that knew." "I only wish I was certain of it," was the reply, made half abstractedly. And then the dealer leaned down upon the bar and remained in deep thought for a very long time, to the still greater surprise of Sandy, who could not comprehend what had come over his employer. "Aint you well, Mr. Graves," he at length asked, breaking in upon the rum-seller's painful reverie. "Well!" he ejaculated, rousing up with a start. "No, I am not well." "What is the matter, sir?" "I'm sick," was the evasive response. "How, sick?" was Sandy's persevering inquiry. "Sick at heart! O, dear! I wish I'd been dead before I opened a grog-shop!"--And the countenance of Mr. Graves changed its quiet, sad expression, to one of intense agony. Sandy looked at the tavern-keeper with an air of stupid astonishment for some moments, unable to comprehend his meaning. It was evident to his mind that Mr. Graves had suddenly become crazed about something. This idea produced a feeling of alarm, and he was about retiring for counsel and assistance, when the tavern-keeper roused himself and said: "When did you see Bill Riley, Sandy?" "I saw him yesterday." "Are you certain?" in a quick, eager tone.