Mary. Poor fellow, he’s asleep at last. What a terrible year it has been for him! That cruel blow stretched him on a bed of sickness, from which we feared he never would rise. Only a good constitution and careful nursing have saved him from death, and saved Will from worse than death—the stain of murder. O, Will, if you only knew how we have fought to save you from that, how we have prayed for Ned’s recovery, your heart might be touched with remorse. Surely Henry Douglas must have told him of his danger. He says he has. But not a word, not a line comes from him. A whole year has passed. We have watched and waited. Mother’s once bright cheek has grown pale. Father, though he says not a word, starts at every footfall. But yet no sign of his return.

Sally. Now, Jarius, if you don’t stop, I’ll scream. Murder, murder! (Wakes.) Bless my soul! Have I been dreaming?

Mary. Yes, Sally, of Jarius.

Sally. It’s no sech thing. Leastwise, dreams go by contraries. I thought that Jarius Jerden had his arm around my neck, and was going to kiss me; so I hollered.

Mary. As dreams go by contraries, you wouldn’t scream if he really had.

Sally. Yes, I would. What do I care for Jarius Jerden? He’s forever pokin’ his nose in here when he ain’t wanted. I’ll give him a piece of my mind some day, see if I don’t.

Mary. That will be very satisfactory to him, no doubt, when he pops the important question.

Sally. He? Jarius Jerden pop the question? He’ll never do it. He hain’t the courage. He jest comes here, and sits and whistles, sighs and whittles, and talks about Squire Jones and his cattle, and sich nonsense. I’ve no patience with him. If I was a man, I’d just know which side my bread was buttered on in short order.

Hannah. (Outside, L.) Sally, Sally!

Sally. Yes, marm.

Hannah. (Outside, L.) Your bread’s run onto the floor, the fire’s all out, and the cat’s in the cream.—Scat! scat!

Sally. Dear me! What a chapter of accidents! And I here dreaming! O, these men, these men! (Exit, L.)

Mary. Ah, Sally, ’twill be a happy day for you when Jarius Jordan musters up courage enough to ask you to be his wife. There’ll be a prompt answer on your part, I’ll warrant. (Enter Douglas, C.) And a happy life, which you so richly deserve, will be the sequel to this queer wooing. Heigho!

Douglas. (Who has crept up behind her chair.) That sigh was touching, Mary. Was it meant for me?

Mary. (Starting up.) Mr. Douglas! You here?

Douglas. Does that surprise you? Where should I be but in the presence of her I love—of the angelic being who has promised to be my wife? (Ned wakes, and, leaning on his elbow, listens.)

Mary. That was a great while ago.

Douglas. A year only. Surely you have not repented of your promise.

Mary. I have.

Douglas. Ho, ho! So this is the meaning of the coldness which I have felt creeping into our intercourse of late—you repent your promise!

Mary. Mr. Douglas, listen to me. A year ago I was a giddy girl, proud to be noticed by one so high in the social sphere as you. Your attentions to me, while other girls in vain sought to attract you, dazzled me, caused a fluttering in my silly bosom, which I then thought was love, and I gave you encouragement; nay, I will confess it, promised to be your wife. We were very happy here in our family circle then—very. But, alas! trouble came. You know how. My brother fled; our dear Ned was struck down; I became his nurse; by night and by day I watched by his couch; and in those long hours what could I do but think, think, think? I thought of the wide difference in our social position, how unsuited we were for each other—you, with your fine talents and rich connections, I, a poor girl, reared to hard work, with no knowledge of the world outside our little village; and then I looked into my heart, and somehow, I can’t explain it, I felt there was no love there; that I never could be happy as your wife; and so to-night I ask you to release me.

Douglas. Well, ’pon my word, here’s a confession! Here’s a fine position for the heir of the Douglas name and state. After my unremitting attentions for a year, I am to be thrown aside, like a country bumpkin, at the whim of a girl who don’t know her own mind! No, no, Mary, I shall not release you. You’ll think better of it to-morrow.

Mary. Yes, better, for my resolve will be stronger.

Douglas. And that resolve is—

Mary. Never to marry you, Henry Douglas. It is best we have no misunderstanding now.

Douglas. It is, indeed. So, so! While I have been absent, my place has been taken in your heart by that fool, Ned Hartshorn.

Mary. Mr. Douglas!

Douglas. Yes; it’s as plain as the sun at noonday. Stunned by a slight blow, he made that the pretext for a long season of wasting sickness, that he might secure your attention, that he might bill and coo in your face, excite your compassion, and awake in your heart an answer to his love. The hypocrite! With his youth and strength, the blow he received should not have kept him from his work a day. ’Twas a crafty trick.

Mary. Mr. Douglas!

Douglas. Ay, a crafty trick. But it shall not succeed. I have your promise; I have your father’s consent. I will not release you.

Mary. Henry Douglas, you have spoken plainly, and you have spoken falsely. ’Tis true he who lies there loves me. I have read it in his pleading eyes; I have heard it in the delirium of fever from his lips. But he is as incapable of the meanness you would ascribe to him as you are of an honorable thought. Shame, shame! He has worked hard for an honest name. Poor fellow; ’tis all he has in the world!—and you, rich and powerful, seek to rob him of that.

Douglas. Mary!

Mary. Silence! I will not hear you. You have attacked the honor of a dear friend, dearer for the infirmity which has fallen upon him through the instrumentality of one of my name. ’Tis but right I should stand forth in his defence. Hear me. I asked you to release me from my promise; I gave you the reasons, good, true reasons, which would have convinced an honorable man. I have one more to give, which must convince you. I can never be your wife, for your attack has revealed something I hardly dreamed. I love Ned Hartshorn as I can never love another.

Douglas. Ha! The truth at last! There is no misunderstanding now. Your last reason has convinced me. Now hear one which must overpower yours, which must convince you that I will not be trifled with. Your brother Will and I parted company this morning.

Mary. Will and you! What mean you?

Douglas. Yesterday, being the first of the month, my book was returned to me from the Phoenix Bank, with the checks which I had drawn during the month. I say, which I had drawn. I’m wrong. There was one there for two hundred dollars, signed by a clever imitation of my name, of which I had no knowledge. It was a forgery.

Mary. A forgery! Well?

Douglas. Nay, ’twas very bad, for I found, upon investigation, it had been done by your brother.

Mary. Will? No, no; you do not suspect him.

Douglas. I know he forged that check. This morning I charged him with it. Of course he indignantly denied it. I informed him, quietly, that I had no further need of his services. He took his hat, and departed; and there the matter rests. Of course I might have called in an officer, and had him arrested; but, as he was in a fair way to become my brother-in-law, that would have been injudicious, to say the least.

Mary. It would have killed my mother. But Will—where is he now?

Douglas. I haven’t the least idea. Of one thing be certain—he will never trouble you with his presence. His city life has not been a success. He will not return to boast of it. Besides, should he appear here, I must arrest him.

Mary. You arrest him? No, no; that would be infamous.

Douglas. He is a criminal; he has robbed me, and squandered my money. Why should I pardon him?

Mary. Because—because—(Aside.) O, Heavens, I have lost the power to plead for him!

Douglas. Mary, you will think better of your resolve. You love your brother; he is in danger. If I but raise my finger, disgrace and infamy are fastened upon him forever. I would not willingly be the instrument of justice in this case. I would not rob him of liberty; of the opportunity to wipe out this disgrace. But you, to-night, propose to rob me of my happiness; to blight my life by withholding the treasure I covet—yourself. Think you not, in such a case, revenge is justice?

Mary. What would you have me do?

Douglas. Fulfil your promise. Become my wife.

Mary. Still loving Ned Hartshorn?

Douglas. Love that fool! I do not believe it. You are too sensible a girl, Mary. No, no. When you are my wife, this idle folly will be but a dream.

Mary. Yes, when I am your wife! And if I keep my promise, my brother—

Douglas. Shall not be molested. More, I will befriend him, and place him in a good position.

Mary. Indeed! So I am to save my brother at the cost of my love! Henry Douglas, the trick is worthy of you; but it shall not move me. I love my brother, Heaven knows; but not even to save him from prison would I marry one who has suffered at his hands, by consenting to become your wife.

Douglas. I have done. Justice must take its course. Nay, I will not be conquered by so mean a foe. Your father, your father, Mary, he shall decide whom he will accept as his daughter’s husband,—I, rich, accomplished, of good family, or that low, gawky clown.

Mary. Silence! He is a brave, noble, true man, who would scorn to stoop to the petty tricks of the rich and accomplished Henry Douglas. Let my father decide. I care not. Every threat you utter but strengthens my resolution. Do your worst. From your arms I would fly to his, though I knew poverty and toil should be our portion.

Douglas. As you please. But I shall not release you, Mary Nutter. My wife you shall, you must be. You’ve a stubborn father and a stubborn lover to fight. Arm yourself, Mary; you will need all your strength, and then—I shall win. Good night. (Exit, C.)

Mary. Ah, while there is life there is hope, even in a bad cause. (Turns, and sees Ned looking at her.) Why, Ned, you awake?

Ned. Yes, Mary. I have heard all.

Mary. What! No, no, Ned, not all!

Ned. Yes, Mary, every word. O, it seems as though a reviving draught had been poured through my veins, and life, strong, healthy life was coming back to me. Now I can speak, give utterance to that which you have discovered, but which I, weak, distrustful, hid in my own bosom. Now, Mary, I can tell you I love you.

Mary. Ned, have I done right to break my promise?

Ned. Yes, Mary. You have obeyed the dictates of your heart. Douglas is unworthy the rich prize he seeks.

Mary. Had I known you were listening, Ned, I fear my tongue would have refused to do its duty.

Ned. And you love me?

Mary. Yes, Ned, with all my heart.

Ned. O, you make me so happy! An hour ago life seemed not worth living for; but now, with your love to cheer me, all is bright and hopeful. It’s a glorious world! and never fear but I will find a way to lead you, not to toil and poverty, not to wealth and luxury, but to a comfortable home, where the ring of my hammer and the sound of your voice shall blend in sweet accord.

Mary. Why, Ned, what magic’s here? Your eye is bright, your cheek glowing, your whole manner so unlike you! I’m frightened.

Ned. Magic? The magic of a woman’s love, which can transform age to youth, and make the dull heart beat with healthy power. You smile on me, and I am strong again.

Mary. Now be careful. Remember you are an invalid. Bless me! how late it is! Come, you must to bed at once. Remember I am your nurse still.

Ned. O, I’ll obey. But I shan’t sleep a wink. Mary, are you sure I’m not dreaming?

Mary. There’s my hand. When you ask it, it is yours.

Ned. (Places his arm around her waist, takes her hand and raises it to his lips.) Mine! heart and hand mine! No; I’m not dreaming. ’Tis a blessed reality.

Exeunt, R.

(Knock at door, C., then it opens, and Jarius sticks his head in.)

Jarius. Jes’ so. (Enters.) Nobody to hum, or all gone to roost, except Sally. That air female I jest seen through the kitchen winder a slashin’ away in the bread trough like all possessed. She’s a powerful gal—she is. Her washin’ don’t hang round long arter breakfast, I reckon. O, Sally, ef yeou only knew what a powerful drubbin’ was goin’ on behind my ribs on your account, you’d take pity and help a feller out somehow. Plague take it! She knows it well enough. Didn’t I start right off, a year ago, on her hint, and git my hair cropped so short that I couldn’t lay on a piller, and sneezed and snorted, and wore out handkerchers with the influenza? Didn’t I go and git measured for a new pair of boots, so tight that I hobbled all day and howled all night with aching toes? Didn’t I git fitted to a bran new coat, that bust up the back the fust time I wore it? Ef that ain’t showin’ off one’s love, I’d like to know it! But it’s no use. She won’t help a feller a bit. She knows every time I come I’m a burnin’ to ask her to be my wife. But I can’t say it. It gits jes’ so fur, and there it sticks. Sally, I love you. Four words. I’m blamed ef they ain’t a bigger load to git rid of than a Fourth er July oration! But it’s no use. It’s got to come. So, Jarius, don’t be a fool. Spit it out, and she’s yourn. I will, the minute I see her. I won’t wait for nothin’, but jest shout, Sally—(Enter Sally, L., with her hands and arms covered with flour.) Sh, sh! How do you do? (Shakes hands quickly.)

Sally. Law sakes, Mr. Jerden, you’ve caught me this time, sure enough! I’m up to my elbows in flour. So jest excuse me a minute. (Going, L.)

Jarius. No, hold on a minute, or I shall bust. Now’s the appointed time, Sally. Sally, I’ve got something particular to say—Sally—Sally—old Hopkins has got the yaller janders.

Sally. Wal, I declare! Is that the particular somethin’? (Going, L.)

Jarius. No, no. Hold on a minute. (Catches her by the arm; gets flour on his hands.) ’Tain’t that. (Aside.) Consarn it, there’s a cold chill runs up my back, and my face is burnin’ up. (Wipes his face with his hands, leaving flour on it.)

Sally. Why, Mr. Jerden, what is the matter with you? You’re as pale as a ghost!

Jarius. Jes’ so. O, Sally, hear me. Don’t look at me, but open your ears. Pally Seeslee,—no, Sally Peeslee,—I—I—I think it’s going to rain. (Aside.) I can’t do it.

Sally. Wal, what of it?

Jarius. Jes’ so. It’ll put an end to the dry spell.

Sally. It seems to me that you are having a very dry spell about somethin’, Mr. Jerden.

Jarius. Yes; jes’ so. Ha, ha, ha-h! That’s very good!

Sally. I’ll be back before you want me, I guess. (Going, L.)

Jarius. Don’t leave me. Hear me first, for I’m on an awful strain, and if I once let up I’m a gone coon. Sally, I want to say—I must say—Sally, I mean to say—how’s your marm?

Sally. Why, Mr. Jerden, are you crazy? Mother’s been dead and buried this six months.

Jarius. So she has. It’s no use asking arter her—is it? That wan’t what I was going to say. To come to the p’int, Sally, to come to the p’int, I—I—I don’t feel well.

Sally. Then you’d better go home, tie up your ears, and get to bed. It’s my opinion you’ve had a pint too much, Jarius Jerden; and if ever you show yourself here in that condition again, I’ll drown the pizen out of yer with a kittle of hot water. Ain’t ye ashamed of yourself, at your time of life making a fool of yourself in this way, Jarius Jerden? I did think you had some sense; but you’re nothing but a fool, arter all. Go home. Don’t stand there staring at me in that way. Go to bed, sleep it off, and rise in the morning a sadder and a wiser man. O, Jarius, you, of all men! Wal, I never! (Exit, L.)

Jarius. Jes’ so. Sold again. And she thinks I’m drunk! Never was drunk in all my life; but if the sensation is anything like bein’ in love without the power of tellin’ on it, then all I’ve got to say, it’s an all-fired mean feelin’. Wal, things is gittin’ on backwards mighty fast, anyhow. I’ve made a darned goose of myself, that’s sartin. Go home and sleep it off? Yes, I guess not. I’ll just hang round here a little longer, and if there’s another chance, I’ll make one mouthful of it, and say, “Sally—” O, consarn it, Jarius, you darsn’t. You’re a mean, mealy-mouthed critter, and no mistake. (Exit, C.)

Enter Mary, R.

Mary. Who’s that? Somebody just left the house. Who could it have been? It must have been Jarius, on his nightly visit. Sally’s light is still burning in the kitchen. I’ll just pick up my work, and off to bed. Can it be possible that Will forged that check? I don’t believe it. Henry Douglas must have invented that story to frighten me.

Enter Will, C., softly.

Poor boy, I wish he were safe home again!

Will. Mary—sister!

Mary. (Rushing into his arms.) O, Will, dear Will, is it you at last?

Will. Hush! Don’t wake anybody. I wouldn’t be seen by any one but you for the world. You see, I got awful homesick, wanted to have a look at the old home, and, if possible, speak with you. But I don’t want to meet father or mother.

Mary. Don’t want to meet them! O, Will, your city life—

Will. Is splendid! I’m rising in the world—I am. That’s the place for me. Busy all day, and at night seeing the sights. O, it’s gay! I’m doing well. But I shall never meet father until I am rich enough to say, “I was right, and you were wrong. I should have been on the bench now had I listened to you; but I asserted my rights, went into the world, and have come back rich, powerful, influential.” Ahem. That’s the style in which I shall meet him one of these days.

Mary. Will, are you still in the employ of Mr. Douglas?

Will. No. I’m on my own account.

Mary. O, Heavens! ’tis true, ’tis true!

Will. What’s true, Mary?

Mary. The forged check.

Will. Eh? What forged check?

Mary. Henry Douglas told me to-night that you had forged his name to a check for two hundred dollars.

Will. ’Tis a lie! an infamous lie!

Mary. He said you denied it.

Will. We have never spoken concerning a check. I have had nothing to do with his money matters.

Mary. But you have parted?

Will. Because he wished me to testify falsely in a case in which he was concerned—to perjure myself. I refused; and for that reason, and that alone, we parted. Mary, I may be wild and reckless, but, believe me, I have never committed a crime—never.

Mary. I do believe you, Will. ’Tis but another proof of his perfidy.

Will. Never mind him, Mary. He’s not worthy of a thought. Tell me of father and mother. Are they well?

Mary. Ah, Will, your conduct has made them ten years older. Father will not allow your name to be mentioned, and mother, at his bidding, is silent; but her face is careworn, her step feeble, and the nervous start she gives when the door opens tells how anxiously she awaits your return. You will see her, Will?

Will. Not to-night, Mary. In an hour I must be on my way back to the city. Mary, I wish I had not come here. There’s a power in the old house that makes my heart ache, it awakens such memories! And mother, dear soul, how sadly her bright hopes of her boy have been shattered! Though I have dashed into the city, and been swept along by its hurry and whirl, I have often thought of this quiet house, and ached, fairly ached, to feel mother’s arms around my neck, and her goodnight kiss upon my brow. O, Mary, be tender, very tender with her. Don’t let her hear a word against me. Sometimes I think that fierce temptation will overwhelm me, ruin me, body and soul; and that would break her heart.

Mary. O, Will, stay with us. Here you are safe from all temptations.

Will. Here? Why, Mary, you forget the little brown jug, which first tempted me to drink, which created a thirst, which, fight against as I will, must be quenched.

Mary. Ah; but the little brown jug will not tempt you now. Since that day there has been no more brewing of strong drink. Father has abandoned it, and the old jug has been put to a better use.

Will. A better use?

Mary. Yes. ’Tis now placed in the cupboard in father’s room, and every Saturday night he places in it the sum of money he would have expended for liquor during the week. There’s quite a large sum there.

Will. That’s very queer. In father’s cupboard, you say?

Mary. Yes. But you do not inquire after Ned.

Will. Ned Hartshorn? Is he here still?

Mary. Will, are you ignorant of his severe illness? Did not Mr. Douglas tell you?

Will. Nothing concerning Ned Hartshorn. I haven’t heard his name before for a year.

Mary. Douglas’s deceit again! Will, for a year he has not left the house. That blow with the jug, a year ago, nearly killed him.

Will. What! And I knew nothing of it? O, this is terrible! That man is a fiend! He has tried to keep from me all knowledge of you and my family, for what reason I cannot guess. But I will know. Ned Hartshorn nearly killed, and by my hand! I am accursed! Let me fly from this place!

Mary. No, no, Will; not now, not now!

Will. I will! I must! What right have I to stand beneath this roof? I have defied my father, chosen my own path in life, turned my back upon you all, and have no right to claim kindred here. Let me go, Mary. ’Tis better for all. There’s a curse upon me, a bitter curse. Let me go! let me go!

Mary. No, no, brother. (Clings about his neck.) I will not release you. We love you dearly.

Will. Then pray for me, think of me kindly if you can; but part we must. (Kisses her.) Mary, sister, Heaven bless you! (Rushes out, C.)

Mary. Gone. Poor boy! I tremble for him, swayed by every impulse of his wayward nature, in the midst of temptation; his young life already poisoned by the love of drink, what must be his fate! O, brother, may Heaven send some good angel to reclaim you, and hear a mother’s and a sister’s prayers in your behalf. (Takes light from table, and exits, R.)

Door opens, softly. Enter Will, C.

Will. Homeless and friendless! She little knows it has come to that. She little knows that my threat to acquaint my father with his wild doings parted Douglas and I. He marry her! Not if I can prevent it. But what power have I with my stubborn father? Douglas has trumped up his charge of forgery to frighten me and intimidate her. How can I alarm her and father? I came to tell her, and have not spoken a word against him. But I will find a way. Just now I must care for myself. I haven’t had a morsel to eat to-day, so my good mother’s cupboard must provide. If I could only have one good pull at the little brown jug! I forgot. ’Tis now put to better use. Better? There’s money in it; and money will provide both food and shelter. Why not? Haven’t I a right to put my fingers in it? Yes, you have put it to a better use, father, and, with your good leave, I’ll have a pull at it, as in former days. Egad, it’s a capital joke. There’s no crime about it, for it’s all in the family, and one member mustn’t starve while others hoard wealth. I’ll creep into father’s room, secure the jug, help myself, and nobody shall be the wiser. Softly, my boy, softly. (Creeps out, L.)

Jarius appears at window, or door, C.

Jarius. Consarn it! somebody’s been sneaking round this house for the last half hour. Wonder if he’s arter Sally! (Enters window, or door.) Blamed if I ain’t going to know what it’s all about! If it’s a thief, then all I’ve got to say, there’ll be some spry wrastling around here afore he gits off with much plunder.

Enter Will, L., with jug of money.

Will. All right. I’ve got it. (Runs into Jarius’s arms.)

Jarius. (Seizing him by collar.) Jes’ so. So have I.

Will. Ah! Discovered! Who are you, scoundrel?

Jarius. Who are you, thief? (Drags him to moonlight.) Will Nutter!

Will. Jarius Jordan!

Jarius. Wal, I never! Will Nutter a thief!

Will. Thief? ’Tis false.

Jarius. (Snatching jug from him.) Here is the proof. O, Will, young feller, has it come to this?

Will. What right have you meddling here? This is my father’s house. Haven’t I a right to pass in and out of it when I please?

Jarius. Jes’ so; but not to rob the old man. What right have I to meddle? The right which every honest man should be proud to exercise—the right to battle wrong wherever found. Young feller, you’ve made my heart ache to-night. To see the boy we were all so proud of sneaking out of his father’s house a thief! It’s too bad!

Will. Jarius Jordan, once more I tell you I’m no thief.

Jarius. Will you tell your father so, when I arouse him, as I mean to?

Will. No, no, Jarius; don’t do that. Let me go as I came. Keep the jug, if you please; only let me go.

Jarius. Will Nutter, young feller, you’re going to destruction as fast as your legs can carry you. Where’s your pride? Where’s your grand expectations, that you raved so about, a year ago? Why, you’re the meanest of all critters—a thief.

Will. That name again?

Jarius. Yes; again and again. I ain’t agoin’ to be mealy-mouthed on this subject, anyhow. You see what yer fine friend has brought ye to; for it’s all his work. I’ve watched ye in the city all through yer year of service with him. I’ve seen the temptations spread by him like a spider, and you, poor little fly, walk into them. It all came of his trickery. And now here you are, crawling into the room where your poor mother is sleeping—

Will. O, don’t, Jarius; don’t speak of my mother! What would she say to know that her poor boy was a—a—

Jarius. Thief! Say it, Will, young feller. Git the bile all out of yer system. Look at yerself as ye are; feel as mean as ye look. You are—

Will. A thief! Yes, Jarius, it’s the truth. O, why did I come here? Why add this horror to a life already made wretched by my folly? I never dreamed of this. It was a sudden impulse. I never gave a thought to it. It came upon me unawares. But now I see its wickedness. O, Jarius, why can’t I die? (Sinks on floor, covers face with hands.) Why can’t I die? I haven’t a friend in the world to care for me now.

Jarius. Yes, you have. Look up, Will. I never went back on a feller-critter, good or bad, when in distress, and I ain’t a goin’ to do it now. Look up, young feller. I’ll help you out;

Will. Help me? You! Then show me how to help myself. Show me some way to wipe out this disgrace, and I will bless you.

Jarius. Listen to me. A year ago, of your own accord, you set out to seek your fortune with Hen Douglas—

Will. Yesterday we parted, for his service was too mean for me to perform.

Jarius. Jes’ so. You’ve had a year of his tuition; will you now take a year of mine?

Will. Yours, Jarius?

Jarius. Yes, mine. I wanted you then, but, Douglas eucred me. I want you now. Will you serve me?

Will. Willingly, and bless you for the chance.

Jarius. Jes’ so. Young feller, you’ve only seen the dark side of life. You’ve been dipped into temptation; but hang on to me and I’ll pull you out. There’s my hand.

Will. And there’s mine.

Jarius. Hold on a minute. Let’s understand things. There’s got to be a rippin’ away of old associations—no billiards, no cards, no theatres.

Will. There’s my hand.

Jarius. Hold on a minute. You’re to stick to all I ask, although it goes agin the grain.

Will. There’s my hand.

Jarius. Hold on a minute. Here’s the hardest. You must solemnly promise that for one year you will never touch, taste, or handle liquor, plain or embellished, raw or fancy. It’s hard, young feller, for you, but it’s your only hope.

Will. It is, indeed, Jarius. Heaven bless you! You are a true friend. As you speak, I feel the strength of your good, noble heart animating mine. Yours is the first warning voice that has ever reached my ears, and I will heed it. Do with me as you will. I promise.

Jarius. Jes’ so. Nuff sed; shake. (They stand in centre of stage, with clasped hands, as the curtain slowly descends.)