This story is about a girl not much older than you, who had a great trouble come upon her, some years ago. Her father who was—I’m sorry to say—a drunkard, had at last died, leaving Alice Rawson, and her brother a little older, to take care of their invalid mother.

The trouble that came upon her, as I said, was the finding that the brother, who was steady at his work, and proud to support the family, began to go out every evening. The great dread seized her that he would follow in the footsteps of his father. They had suffered so much from the father’s habits, that this was almost more than she could bear, and she felt sure that it would kill her mother.

She tried every way she could think of to entertain her brother at home, but she could not make it gay and lively as it was in the saloon where the boys met, and when she tried to coax him to stay at home, he answered her that it was awful dull in the evening after a long day’s work.

Alice could not deny this, and she had not a word to say when one evening he ended with, “You can’t expect a fellow to stay mewed up at home all the time. Now look here,” as he saw the tears come into Alice’s eyes, “you needn’t fret about me, Sis. I’m bound to take care of myself, but I must have a little pleasure after working all day. Good-by; I’ll be home by nine.”

But he was not home by nine, nor by ten, and the clock had struck eleven when Alice heard his step. She hurried to the door to let him in. His face was flushed, and his breath—alas!—reminded her of her father’s.

He made some excuse and hurried off to bed, and Alice sank into a chair in the sitting-room. She was shocked. She was grieved. This was the first time Jack had showed signs of being under the influence of strong drink, and she felt as if she could not bear it.

A month before, they had laid in a drunkard’s grave their father, and over his terrible death-bed, Jack had promised their mother that he would not follow in his steps.

“Yet now—so soon—he has begun,” thought Alice, sitting there alone in the cold. “And how can I blame him, poor boy!” she went on, “when it is so dull and stupid for him here? It’s no wonder he prefers the pleasant warm room, the lights, the gay company, the games that he gets at Mason’s. Oh, why aren’t good things as free as bad ones!” she cried out in her distress.

“But what can I do?” was the question to which her thoughts ever came back. “I must save Jack, for he’s all mother and I have; but how?”

“What can one girl do, without money and without friends—almost?” thought Alice, remembering, with a shudder, that a drunkard’s daughter is apt to have few influential friends.

Alice Rawson was clear-headed though young. She thought the matter over during the next day, as she went about her work in the house, waiting on her invalid mother, making the cottage tidy, and cooking their plain meals.

“It’s no use to talk,” she said to herself; “Jack means to do what’s right. And it’s even worse to scold or be cross to him, for that only makes him stay away more.” And she gave the pillow she was stirring up a savage poke to relieve her feelings.

“I know, too,” she went on, pausing with the other pillow in her hand, “that when he’s there with the boys, it’s awful hard never to spend a cent when the others do. It looks mean, and Jack hates being mean;” and she flung the pillow back into its place with such spirit that it went over on to the floor.

“What are you banging about so for?” asked her mother, from the next room.

“Oh, nothing. I was thinking, mother,” she answered. And she went on thinking.

“What would be best would be to have some other place just as pleasant, and warm, and free as Mason’s,—some good place.” Alice sighed at this thought.

“It can’t be here at home, because it takes so much money to have it warm and light; and besides, his friends wouldn’t feel free to come, and it would be lonely for him.”

“Alice, what are you muttering about?” called Mrs. Rawson.

“Nothing, mother; I’m only making a plan.”

“If I could get books and papers,” she went on, closing the door, and starting for the kitchen; “but Jack is too tired to read much.”

Suddenly a new thought struck her, and she stood in the middle of the kitchen like a statue.

“I wonder—I do wonder why a place couldn’t be fixed—a room somewhere! I believe people would help if they only thought how good it would be for boys. That would be splendid!” And she looked anything but a statue now, for she fairly beamed with delight at the thought.

“I don’t suppose I can do much alone,” she said later, as the plan grew more into shape; “but it’s for Jack, and that’ll help me talk to people, I’m sure, and at least I can try.”

She did try. Without troubling her mother with her plans,—for she knew she would be worried and think of a dozen objections to it,—in her delicate state of health,—Alice hurried through with her work, put on her things, and went to call first on Mr. Smith, a grocer. She happened to know that at the back of Mr. Smith’s store was a room opening on a side street, which he had formerly rented for a cobbler’s shop, but which was now empty.

Alice’s heart fluttered wildly a moment, when she stood before the grocer in his private office, where she was sent when she asked of the clerk an interview with Mr. Smith.

“You are Rawson’s daughter, I believe,” was Mr. Smith’s greeting.

“Yes,” said Alice, “I am Alice Rawson, and you’ll think I am crazy, I’m afraid, when I tell you my errand,” she went on, trembling. “But oh, Mr. Smith! if you remember my father before—before”—

“I do, child,” said the grocer kindly, supposing she had come to ask for help.

“Then you’ll not wonder,” she went on bravely, “that I am going to try every way to save my brother.”

“Is your brother in danger?” asked Mr. Smith. “And what can I do?”

“He is in danger,” said Alice earnestly, “of doing just as father did, and so are lots of other boys, and what you can do is to let me have Johnson’s old shop, free of rent for a little while, to make an experiment—if I can get help,” she added warmly.

“But what will you do? I don’t understand,” said Mr. Smith.

“What will I do? Oh, I’ll try to make a place as pleasant as Mason’s saloon, that shan’t cost anything, and I’ll try to get every boy and young man to go there, and not to Mason’s. If they could have a nice, warm place of their own, Mr. Smith, don’t you think they would go there?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t know but they would,” said the grocer; “but it’s an experiment. I don’t see where you’ll get things to put in, or your fire, or anything to make it rival Mason’s. However, I’m busy now and can’t talk more, and as you’re in earnest and the cause is good, I’ll let you have the room to try the plan.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Alice.

“Here’s the key,” taking that article down from a nail. “Say no more, child, I couldn’t rent it this winter anyway,” as she tried to speak.

Alice walked out with her precious key, feeling as if the whole thing was done. But it was far from that.

Her next visit—she had carefully planned them all out—was to a man who sold wood; for in that village wood was the only fuel.

This man, Mr. Williams, had a son who was somewhat dissipated, therefore he was ready to listen patiently to Alice’s pleading, and to help in any really practical plan. He listened interestedly, and promised to give a cord of cut wood to begin with, and if it proved a success, to give enough to run the fireplace—there was no stove—all the evenings of that winter.

Next, Alice went to the finest house in the village, where lived Mrs. Burns, a wealthy lady, whose son was wild and gave her anxiety.

“She must pity mother and me,” thought Alice, as she walked up the broad walk to the house, “and I’m sure she’ll help.”

She did. She was surprised at Alice’s bravery, but warmly approved of her plan. “You’ll want books and papers,” she said, “and you must have hot coffee always ready.”

“I hadn’t dared to think of so much,” said Alice.

“But you must have coffee,” repeated Mrs. Burns, “or they’ll miss their beer too much; and you must charge enough to pay for it, say two cents a cup; I think it could be made for that.”

“But then we must have some one to make it,” said Alice thoughtfully.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Burns, “and I think I know the very woman—Mrs. Hart. She is poor, and I know will be glad, for a little wages (which I shall pay her), to spend her evenings there, making coffee. She’s a jolly sort of a person, too, and I think would be just the one to make the boys feel at home.

“And I’ll do more,” went on the kind-hearted woman, “I’ll give you an old-fashioned bookcase I have upstairs, and some books to start a library. Other ladies will give you more, and you’ll have it full, no doubt.”

After leaving Mrs. Burns, Alice’s work was much easier, for that lady gave her a little subscription book, in which she entered Mr. Smith’s gift of the room-rent, Mr. Williams’s gift of the wood, and her own of the hire of the woman to tend it, a dozen books in a bookcase, and two comfortable chairs.

Alice called at nearly every house in the village, and almost every one gave something. Several gave books; two or three others agreed to send their weekly papers when they had read them; many gave one chair each; three or four gave plain tables, games,—backgammon and checkers,—and two or three bright colored prints were promised.

Red print curtains for the windows, and cups and saucers for the coffee, came from the village storekeeper, a teakettle to hang over the fire, and a tin coffee-pot, came from the tin-shop; cheap, plated teaspoons from the jeweler; two copies of the daily paper and promise of lots of exchanges, from the editor of the only paper.

In fact, a sort of enthusiasm seemed to be aroused on the subject, and when Alice went home that night, her little book had a list of furniture enough to make the room as pleasant as could be desired.

The next day was quite as busy. The woman Mrs. Burns had engaged came to put the room in order, and after it had a thorough scrubbing, Alice went out to collect the furniture. The village expressman, who owned a hand-cart, had subscribed his services to the plan, and Alice went with him, book in hand, and gathered up the gifts.

The floor was covered with fresh sawdust—the butcher sent that; the gay curtains were up, the bookcase full of books was arranged, some tables were covered with papers, and others with games, a rousing fire was built in the fireplace, the tea-kettle was singing away merrily, and at a side table with cups and coffee things, sat Mrs. Hart, when Alice asked Jack to go somewhere with her. He consented though a good deal surprised. She brought him to this room.

“What’s this?” asked Jack, as they turned down the street. A sign was over the door (Mr. Dover, the sign-painter gave that) of “Coffee-Room.” “This is something new.”

“Yes,” said Alice, “let’s go in.”

Jack was too surprised to reply, and followed his sister as she opened the door.

There sat smiling Mrs. Hart, with knitting in hand, a delightful odor of coffee in the air, and a sign over her table which said “Coffee two-cents.”

“Let’s have some,” said Jack; “how good it smells!”

“Since you went out, Miss Alice,” said Mrs. Hart, as she poured the two cups, “a big package of coffee—ten pounds at the least—and another of sugar has most mysteriously appeared;” and she nodded towards the grocer’s part of the house, to indicate the giver.

“Why, what have you to do with it?” asked Jack, looking sharply at Alice.

“She!” exclaimed Mrs. Hart. “Don’t you know? She got it up; it’s all her doing—everything in this room.”

“No, no, Mrs. Hart,” protested Alice, “I didn’t give a single thing.”

“Except your time and the plan, and everything,” said Mrs. Hart warmly.

“What does it mean? Tell me, Alice,” asked Jack; and she told him. “And the room is for you, Jack, and the other boys; and every evening there’ll be a bright fire and hot coffee, and Mrs. Hart to make it, and I hope—oh, I do hope—you’ll come here and have a good time every night,” she ended.

Jack was touched. “Ally, you’re a trump! and I’ll do it sure.”

And he did. At first when the story got out, all the boys came from curiosity to see what one girl had done; and after that they continued to come because it was the pleasantest place in town and all their own.

No irksome restraints were put upon the boys, and there were no visitors who came to give them temperance lectures or unwelcome advice; no boy was asked to read book or paper, and no one was told how much better for him was coffee than beer. This, each one found out for himself, in the best way—by experience.

Every evening, before it was time for the boys to begin to come, Alice would run down to see that everything was right, that the fire was bright, the coffee ready, and Mrs. Hart in her place. Then she would open the bookcase, select three or four of the most interesting looking books, and lay them around on the tables, in a careless way, as if they were accidentally left there.

Nor did she let people forget about it. As often as once a week, she went to the houses of those most interested, and received from one the weekly papers that had been read, from another a fresh book or magazine, and from a third some new game or a pretty print to put on the wall.

Coffee and the things to put in it, Alice had no need to ask for. The two cents a cup proved to be more than enough to pay for it.

Promptly at half-past nine Mrs. Hart gathered up the things and washed the cups and saucers, and as the clock struck ten she put out the lights and locked the door.

Books and papers did their silent work, and before spring the young men grew ashamed of owing their comforts to charity, so they agreed among themselves to pay a small sum weekly toward expenses. It was not binding on any one, but nearly every one was glad to do it, and by this means, before another winter, the coffee-room was an independent establishment.

The power it was among those boys could not be told, till years afterwards, when it was found that nearly every one who had spent his evenings there had become a sober, honest citizen, while those who preferred the saloon, filled drunkards’ graves, or lived criminals, and a pest upon society.

On Jack himself, the effect was perhaps the most striking. As Alice had started the thing, he could not help feeling it his business to see that the boys had a good time, and also, to keep order among them. Mrs. Hart soon found that he was a sort of special policeman, always ready to settle difficulties, and make the boys behave themselves if necessary—which it seldom was.

Feeling the responsibility of his position and influence, brought out in him a manliness of character he had never before shown, and when he became a man in years, no one could have the slightest fear that Jack Rawson would ever follow in the downward steps of his father. And all this he owed to the fact that Alice tried what one girl could do.

It is Shakespeare who says,—

“You said it was going on now,” said Kristy, as Mrs. Wilson paused.

“Yes, it is; I was in that town a few days ago, and one of the neighbors told me the whole story.”

“That’s a good deal for one girl to do,” said Kristy.

“I know it is,” said Mrs. Wilson, “but I know of another girl who did almost as much.”

“What did she do?” asked Kristy, all interest.

“She conquered a crusty old woman, who was soured to all the world.”

“Conquered her?” asked Kristy puzzled.

“Yes; shall I tell you? I see it is raining yet, and mamma’s time isn’t out.”

“Please do!” said Kristy, adding as she turned to her mother, “Mamma, you’re getting off too easy.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I shall have to make it up later,” said mamma, in pretended dismay.

“Indeed you will,” said Kristy, with a laugh; “I shan’t let you off a single story.”

“We’ll see,” said mamma smiling, as Mrs. Wilson began.