was soon visible in Art’s appearance, and that of his poor family.  Good fortune, however, did not stop here; in about a week after this, when Art was plainly but comfortably dressed, and working with Gallagher, feeble as he was, upon journeyman’s wages, there came a letter from his brother Frank, enclosing ten pounds for the use of his wife and children.  It was directed to a friend in Ballykeerin, who was instructed to apply it according to his own discretion, and the wants of his family, only by no means to permit a single shilling of it to reach his hands, unless on the condition that he had altogether given up liquor.  This seemed to Art like a proof that God had rewarded him for the step he had taken; in a few weeks it was wonderful how much comfort he and his family had contrived to get about them.  Margaret was a most admirable manager, and a great economist, and with her domestic knowledge and good sense, things went on beyond their hopes.

Art again was up early and down late—­for his strength, by the aid of wholesome and regular food, and an easy mind, was fast returning to him—­although we must add here, that he never regained the healthy and powerful constitution which he had lost.  His reputation, too, was fast returning; many a friendly salutation he received from those, who, in his degradation, would pass him by with either ridicule or solemn contempt.

Nothing in this world teaches a man such well-remembered lessons of life as severe experience.  Art, although far, very far removed from his former independence, yet, perhaps, might be said never to have enjoyed so much peace of mind, or so strong a sense of comfort, as he did now in his humble place with his family.  The contrast between his past misery, and the present limited independence which he enjoyed, if it could be called independence, filled his heart with a more vivid feeling of thankfulness than he had ever known.  He had now a bed to sleep on, with bona fide blankets—­he had a chair to sit on—­a fire on his hearth—­and food, though plain, to eat; so had his wife, so had his children; he had also very passable clothes to his back, that kept him warm and comfortable, and prevented him from shivering like a reed in the blast; so had his wife, and so had his children.  But he had more than this, for he had health, a good conscience, and a returning reputation.  People now addressed him as an equal, as a man, as an individual who constituted a portion of society; then, again, he loved his wife as before, and lived with her in a spirit of affection equal to any they had ever felt.  Why, this was, to a man who suffered what he and his family had suffered, perfect luxury.

In truth, Art now wondered at the life he had led,—­he could not understand it; why he should have suffered himself, for the sake of a vile and questionable enjoyment—­if enjoyment that could be called, which was no enjoyment—­at least for the sake of a demoralizing and degrading habit, to fall down under the feet as it were, under the evil tongues, and the sneers—­of those who constituted his world—­the inhabitants of Ballykeerin—­was now, that he had got rid of the thraldom, perfectly a mystery to him.  Be this as it may, since he had regenerated his own character, the world was just as ready to take him up as it had been to lay him down.