But this I
will do. I intend to maintain my own children, if I go and sell matches.
I won eight pounds odd yesterday. I squandered one pound, I keep two to
make a fresh start, and you have the rest. While this heart shall
beat--yes, while memory holds her seat, as the poet says, you are dear
to me. Once more, in the poet's words, I grapple you to my soul with
hoops of steel. What has come over me I do not know, and when I wake to
the fact of my degradation I go madly to the drink again. But I will
try, and I implore your forgiveness. I cannot hope to see you often, and
it is better that I should not, for I am worthless. But think of me,
and, if I fall again and again, believe me that I shall go on striving
to do better.--Until death, I am your loving, W. DEVINE."
"We don't want none of his 'oss-racin' money. Send it back, my gal,"
growled old Billiter when he saw this letter. But the poor woman would
not hurt her husband.
Devine found all respectable employments closed to him, and he was often
in desperate straits; but he would always contrive to send something, if
it were only a half-crown, toward the support of his children.
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