It became more and more apparent that he was in great and growing danger. Claire saw much of him. He had been one of the most faithful helpers during the preparations for the concert, and he was still one of the energetic workers, being included in all their plans. Moreover, he was a genial, society-loving, warm-hearted young fellow; one of the sort with whom a sympathetic girl soon becomes intimate. Claire had often, in the earlier days of her girlhood, sighed over the fact that she had no brother; and now it seemed sometimes to her as if this Harry were a sort of brother, over whose interests she must watch. So she exercised an older sister's privilege in growing very anxious about him.

Neither was he so gayly happy as he had been early in the season. He had kept his pledge, coming to her at first with laughing eyes and mock gravity of face, pretending to making confession like the good little boy in the story book, who is sorry, and won't do so any more if he can help it. She always received these admissions with a gentle gravity, so unmistakably tinged with sadness and disappointment, that they presently ceased to be amusing to him. He was beginning to make discoveries: first, that it was by no means an agreeable thing for a manly young man to seek a young woman whom he respected, and voluntarily admit that he had again been guilty of what he knew she looked upon with distrust, not only, but with actual dismay; and second that he had the confession to make much more frequently than he had supposed could possibly be the case; that, in short, the habit which he had supposed such a light one, was growing upon him; that on occasions when he withstood the invitations and temptations, the struggle was a hard one, which he shrank from renewing. Still he made resolves. It was absurd to suppose that he could keep running after Miss Benedict, or sending her notes to say that he had again indulged in a habit that he had assured her was of no consequence, and that he could break in a day if he chose. He knew now that this was folly. It was not to be broken in a day. He began to suspect that possibly he was a slave, with little or no power to break it at all. The tenor of his notes changed steadily. The first one ran thus:

"I have to inform your most gracious majesty that I have this day committed the indiscretion of taking about two thirds of a glass of champagne with an old school chum whom I have not seen for six months. It is another chapter of the old story—he 'beguiled me and I did' drink. Of course it was no fault of mine; and it gives me comfort to inform you that the tempter has gone on his way to Chicago, and that I do not expect to see him for another six months. So humbly craving your majesty's pardon for being thus obliged to trouble her—owing to a certain foolish pledge of mine—I remain your humble subject.

"Harry Matthews."

The last one she received was briefly this:

"Miss Benedict:—I have failed again, though I did not mean to do so. I beg you will erase my name from that page, and care nothing more about it or me."

Over the first note Claire had lingered with a troubled air, but on this last one there dropped tears. She had adopted Harry by this time as a young brother, and she could not help carrying his peril about in her heart. Still, if he had not gone too far, there was more hope for the writer of this brief note, with its undertone of fierce self-disgust, than for the one who could so merrily confess what he believed was, at the worst, a foible.

One evening they walked home together from the church. She was silent, and her heart was heavy. She had caught the odor of wine about him, though he had made a weak effort to conceal it with rich spices. They walked half the distance from the church to the Academy, having spoken nothing beyond an occasional commonplace. Truth to tell, Claire was in doubt what to say, or whether to say anything. She had spoken many words to him; she had written him earnest little notes; what use to say more? It was he who broke the silence, speaking moodily:

"It is of no use, Miss Benedict; I shall have to ask you to release me from that pledge. I cannot keep rushing around to the Academy to tell you what befalls me; it is absurd. And—well, the fact is, as I am situated, I simply can not keep from using liquor now and then; oftener, indeed, than I had supposed when I signed that paper. It must have been a great bore to you, and I owe you a thousand apologies; but you see how it is, I must be released and left to myself. I have been true to my promise, as I knew I should be when I made it, but I can't have you troubled any longer; and, as I say, I have to drink occasionally."

He did not receive the sort of answer which he had expected. He was prepared for an earnest protest, for an argument; but Claire said, her voice very sad the while:

"I know you can not keep from drinking, Harry, and I have known it for a long while."

Now, although he had told himself several times in a disgusted way that he was a coward, and a fool, and a slave, and that he did not deserve to have the respect of a lady, his pride was by no means so far gone that he liked to hear the admission from other lips than his own that he was bound in chains which he could not break.

"What do you mean?" he asked, haughtily enough.

"I mean, Harry, that you are tempted, awfully tempted, to become a drunkard! I mean that I do not think you can help yourself; I think you have gone beyond the line where your strength would be sufficient. You inherit the taste for liquor. Never mind how I learned that; I know it, and have known it for a long time. As surely as Satan lives, he has you in his toils. Oh, Harry!"

There were tears in her voice. She was not one who easily lost self-control before others, but this was a subject on which her heart was sore. He did not know how many times she had said to herself: "What if he were my brother, and mamma sat at home watching and praying for him, and he were as he is! And his mother is a widow, and has only this one, and she sits at home and waits!" And this mother's fast-coming agony of discovery had burned into her soul until it is no wonder that the tears choked what else she might have said.

But Harry was haughty still. He was more than that, however; he was frightened. If the darkness of the night had not shielded his face from observation, its pallor would have frightened her. He tried, however, to steady his voice as he said:

"Miss Benedict, what do you mean? I do not understand. Do you mean that I am foreordained to become a drunkard, and that I can not help myself?"

"Oh, Harry! I mean that the great enemy of your soul has discovered just how he can ruin you, body and soul, and he means to do it. You have toyed with him until you can not help yourself. You can not, Harry. There is no use to fancy that you can. He has ruined many a young man as self-reliant as you. He is too strong for you, and too mean! He has ways of dissembling that you would scorn. He is not honest with you. He has made you believe what was utterly false. He has you in his toils, and as surely as you are here to-night, just so surely will you fail in the battle with him. You do not know how to cope with Satan; you need not flatter yourself that you do. He has played with many a soul, coaxed it to feel just that sense of superiority over him which you feel, until it was too late, and then laughed at his victim for being a dupe."

During the first part of this sentence, Harry Matthews, though startled, was also angry. He had always prided himself on his self-control, upon being able to go just so far in a given direction and no farther unless he chose; and even in this matter, when he had accused himself of being a slave, he had not believed it; he had believed simply that he had discovered himself to be more fond of intoxicants than he had supposed, and that the effect to give them up involved more self-sacrifice than it was worth while to make; and while he was vexed that even this was so, he had honestly believed this to be the whole story. It was not until this moment that the sense of being in actual peril, and being insufficient for his own rescue, rushed over him. I do not know why it did at that time, unless the Holy Spirit saw his opportunity and willed that it should be so.

There was almost mortal anguish in the low voice that sounded at last in answer to Claire's cry of fear.

"God help me, then! What can I do?"

The question surprised Claire, startled her. She had prayed for it, but she was like many another Christian worker in that she had not seemed to expect the answer to her prayer. Verily, He has to be content with exceeding little faith! Claire had expected the blind young man would go on excusing himself, and assuring her of her mistake. None the less was she eager with her answer:

"If you only meant that cry! If you only would give up the unequal strife, and stand aside and cry out, 'O Lord, undertake for me'! what a world would be revealed to you. Harry Matthews, there is just One who fought a battle with Satan and came off victor, and there never will be another. The victory must come through Him, or it is at best a very partial, and at all times a doubtful one. In Him are safety and everlasting strength, and outside of Him is danger."

She did not say another word, nor did he, other than a half-audible "Good-night!" as he held open the Academy gate for her to pass. She went in feeling frightened over much that she had said. Ought she to have spoken so hopelessly to him? What if he turned in despair, and plunged into excesses such as he had not known before? Men had reformed, and signed the pledge and kept it, apparently without the aid of Christ; at least, they had not owned allegiance to him, though well she knew that his restraining grace was, after all, what kept any man from rushing headlong to ruin. God held back even those who would not own his detaining arm. But she had felt so hopeless in regard to Harry, so certain that nothing short of an acknowledged leaning on Christ would be sufficient for his needs. The more she had prayed for him, the more sure had she been that in Christ alone lay his refuge. She had not meant to say this to him. Yet the thoughts seemed to crowd out of themselves, when he gave them opportunity. Now she went to her room shivering and trembling over the possible results.

She had very little opportunity, however, for thought; and there was that awaiting her which was not calculated to quiet her mind.

It was Alice Ansted who rose up from before the east window, where a fine view was to be had of the rising moon, and came forward to meet her as she entered her own room.

"I beg your pardon for having taken possession. There was company in the parlor, and Mrs. Foster said she thought I might come here and wait for you. Is there another committee meeting this evening? or can I hope to have you to myself for five minutes?"

"There is no committee meeting this evening," Clarie said, smiling, "we have been down to measure the platform, and arrange for the organ, but I believe now that everything is done. Take this easy-chair. I am glad you waited for me. There are several things about which I wish to consult you," she added.

"They have to do with that church, I know. I shall not let you get started on that topic. I should be perfectly certain not to get you back to any other to-night; and I want to do the talking myself. I can not see why you care so much for that church."

Claire laughed.

"We care for anything for which we work, and especially for which we sacrifice a little, you know. Why, you care for it yourself. Don't you think you do, a little?"

"I care for you, and for your opinion. I have been telling mamma only this evening, that when the old barn gets fixed up, I believe I will go down there to church. I am not so fond of riding that I care to take an eight-mile ride every Sunday; besides, I think it looks silly. Mamma thinks we are all becoming idiotic, for all the daughters and the son sided with me, and papa said he didn't care a rush light which we did; that it would be easier for the horses to come down here."

"Good news," said Claire, brightly. "I have been hoping for something of the kind. Then you will begin to attend the prayer-meeting, of course, and it does need you so much!"

"I'm sure I don't see why I should. I never attended prayer-meeting in town, and I have belonged to that church for years. The idea of my helping along a prayer-meeting! You do have some very absurd ideas, Claire Benedict, though I may as well admit that the only reason I would have for coming here to church would be to give you pleasure. But this is not in the least what I came to talk to you about, I knew we should get on that subject, and never get away from it."

"Let us go right away from it, and tell me, please, just what you want to talk about. Only let me say this one little thing: I want you to come down to prayer-meeting next Wednesday evening, and discover in how many ways you can help it. Now I am ready."