It was true, the outcome of his visit to London had been a wild devotion to the cause of the down-trodden. I saw a picture of Watt’s “Mammon,” on the walls of the morning-room, and the works of Blatchford, Masterman, and Chiozza Money on the side table. The socialists of the district used to meet every other Thursday evening at the “Hollies” to discuss reform. Meg did not care for these earnest souls. “They’re not my sort,” she said, “too jerky and bumptious. They think everybody’s slow-witted but them. There’s one thing about them, though, they don’t drink, so that’s a blessing.” “Why!” I said, “Have you had much trouble that way?” She lowered her voice to a pitch which was sufficiently mysterious to attract the attention of the boys. “I shouldn’t say anything if it wasn’t that you were like brothers,” she said. “But he did begin to have dreadful drinking bouts. You know it was always spirits, and generally brandy:—and that makes such work with them. You’ve no idea what he’s like when he’s evil-drunk. Sometimes he’s all for talk, sometimes he’s laughing at everything, and sometimes he’s just snappy. And then——” here her tones grew ominous, “——he’ll come home evil-drunk.” At the memory she grew serious. “You couldn’t imagine what it’s like, Cyril,” she said. “It’s like having Satan in the house with you, or a black tiger glowering at you. I’m sure nobody knows what I’ve suffered with him——” The children stood with large awful eyes and paling lips, listening. “But he’s better now?” I said. “Oh, yes—since Gertie came,”—she looked fondly at the baby in her arms—“He’s a lot better now. You see he always wanted a girl, and he’s very fond of her—isn’t he, pet?—are you your Dadda’s girlie?—and Mamma’s too, aren’t you?” The baby turned with sudden coy shyness, and clung to her mother’s neck. Meg kissed her fondly, then the child laid her cheek against her mother’s. The mother’s dark eyes, and the baby’s large, hazel eyes looked at me serenely. The two were very calm, very complete and triumphant together. In their completeness was a security which made me feel alone and ineffectual. A woman who has her child in her arms is a tower of strength, a beautiful, unassailable tower of strength that may in its turn stand quietly dealing death. I told Meg I would call again to see George. Two evenings later I asked Lettie to lend me a dog-cart to drive over to the “Hollies.” Leslie was away on one of his political jaunts, and she was restless. She proposed to go with me. She had called on Meg twice before in the new large home. We started about six o’clock. The night was dark and muddy. Lettie wanted to call in Eberwich village, so she drove the long way round Selsby. The horse was walking through the gate of the “Hollies” at about seven o’clock. Meg was upstairs in the nursery, the maid told me, and George was in the dining-room getting baby to sleep. “All right!” I said, “we will go in to him. Don’t bother to tell him.”