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he had not, hitherto, thought of entering upon any business. Now, however, he began to see the propriety of doing so, and as he had plenty of capital, he proposed to a young man of industrious habits and thorough knowledge of business to enter into a co-partnership with him. This offer was accepted, and the two young men commenced the world with the fairest prospects.

      Three months from the day on which John Barclay had mentioned to his sister that he entertained a regard for Helen Weston, he made proposals of marriage to that young lady, which were accepted.

      "But how in regard to his pledge?" I hear some one ask.

      O, as to that, it was kept, rigidly. Nothing that could intoxicate was allowed to touch his lips. Of course, he was at first frequently asked to drink by his associates, but his reply to all importunities was—

      "No—I have sworn off for six months."

      "So you have said for the last six months," remarked young man, named Watson, one day, on his refusing for the twentieth time to drink with him.

      "Not for six months, Watson. It is only three months this very day since I swore off."

      "Well, it seems to me like six months, anyhow. But do you think that you feel any better for all this total-abstinence?"

      "O as to that, I don't know that I feel such a wonderful difference in body; but in mind I certainly do feel a great deal better."

      "How so?"

      "While I drank, I was conscious that I was beginning to be too fond of drinking, and was too often painfully conscious that I had taken too much. Now, I am, of course, relieved from all such unpleasant feelings."

      "Well, that's something, at least. But I never saw you out of the way."

      "Do you know the reason; Watson?"

      "No."

      "I'll tell you. You were always too far gone yourself, when we drank freely together, to perceive my condition."

      "So you say."

      "It's true."

      "Well, have it as you like. But, see here, John, what are you going to do when your six months are out?"

      "I'm going to be a sober man, as I am now."

      "You never were a drunkard."

      "I was precious near being one, then."

      "Nonsense! That's all some old woman's notion of yours."

      "Well, be that as it may, I certainly intend continuing to be as sober a man as I have been for the last three months."

      "Won't you drink a drop after your time is up?"

      "That'll be just as I choose. I will drink or let it alone, as I like. I shall then be free to drink moderately, or not at all, as seems agreeable to me."

      "That is a little more sensible than your perpetual total-abstinence, teetotal, cold-water system. Who would be such a miserable slave? I would rather die drunk in the gutter, than throw away my liberty."

      "I believe I have said as much myself."

      "Don't you feel a desire to have a good glass of wine, or a julep, now and then?"

      "No, not the slightest. I've sworn off for six months, and that ends the matter. Of course, I have no more desire for a glass of liquor than I have to fly to the moon,—one is a moral, and the other a physical impossibility; and, therefore, are dismissed from my thoughts."

      "What do you mean by a moral impossibility?"

      "I have taken an oath not to drink for six months, and the violation of that oath is, for one of my views and feelings, a moral impossibility."

      "Exactly. There are three months yet to run, you say. After that, I hope to have the pleasure of taking a glass of wine with you in honour of your restoration to a state of freedom."

      "You shall have that pleasure, Watson, if it will really be one—" was Barclay's reply, as the two young men parted.

      Time wore on, and John Barclay, besides continuing perfectly sober, gave constant attention to business. So complete a change in him gave confidence to the parents and friends of Helen Weston, who made no opposition to his wish for an early marriage. It was fixed to take place on the evening of the very day upon which his temporary pledge was to expire.

      To the expiration of this pledge, Barclay had never ceased, from the moment it was taken, to look forward with a lively interest. Not that he felt a desire to drink. But he suffered himself to be worried with the idea that he was no longer a free man. The nearer the day came that was to terminate the period for which he had bound himself to abstinence, the more did his mind dwell upon it, and the more did he desire its approach. It was, likewise, to be his wedding-day, and for that reason, also, did he look eagerly forward. But it is doubtful whether the consummation of his marriage, or the expiration of his pledge, occupied most of his thoughts. The day so long looked for came at last.

      The day that was to make Barclay a free man, and happy in the possession of one of the sweetest girls for a wife he had ever seen.

      "I shall not see you again, until to-night, John," his sister said to him, as he was about leaving the house, after dinner, laying her hand as she spoke upon his arm, and looking into his face with a quiet smile resting upon her own lovely features.—"I have promised Helen to go over and spend the afternoon with her."

      "Very well, sis'."

      "Of course we shall see you pretty early,"—an arch smile playing about her lips as she made the remark.

      "O, yes, I shall be there in time," was the brother's smiling reply, as he kissed the cheek of Alice, and then turned away and left the house. He first proceeded to his store, where he went through, hurriedly, some business that required his attention, occupying something like an hour. Then he went out, and walked rapidly up one of the principal streets of the city, and down another, as if on some urgent errand. Without stopping anywhere, he had nearly returned to his own store, when he was stopped by a friend, who accosted him with—

      "Hallo, John! Where are you going in such a hurry?"

      "I am on my way to the store."

      "Any life and death in the case?"

      "No.—Only I'm to be married to-night, as you are aware; and, consequently, am hardly able to tell whether I am on my head or my heels."

      "True enough! And besides, you are a free man today, are you not?"

      "Yes, Watson, thank Heaven! that trammel will be off in half an hour."

      "You must be fond of trammels, John, seeing that you are going to put another on so soon after getting rid of this—" the friend said, laughing heartily at his jest.

      "That will be a lighter, and far pleasanter bondage I trust, Watson, than the one from which I am about escaping. It will be an easy yoke compared to the galling one under which I have toiled for the last six months. Still, I do not regret having bound myself as I did. It was necessary to give me that self-control which I had well-nigh lost. Now I shall be able to act like a rational man, and be temperate from principle, and not from a mere external restraint that made me little better than a machine."

      "Your time will be up, you say, in half an hour?"

      "Yes—" looking at his watch—"in ten minutes. It is later than I thought."

      "Come, then, let us go over to R—'s—it is full ten minutes' walk from here—and take a drink to freedom and principle."

      "I am ready to join you, of course," was Barclay's prompt reply, as he drew his arm within that of his friend, and the two turned their steps towards the drinking establishment that had been named by the latter.

      "A room, a bottle of sherry, and some cigars," said Watson, as they entered the drinking-house, and went up to the bar.

      In a few minutes after, they were alone, with wine and glasses before them.

      "Here's to freedom and principle!" said Watson, lifting his glass, after having filled his own and Barclay's.

      "And here's to the same high moral (sic) atributes which should ever be

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