"I don't know why I should come to you," she said, at last, speaking half-angrily; "I suppose I am a simpleton, and shall get little thanks for any interference, yet it certainly seems to me as though something ought to be done, and as though you might do it."

"If there is any way in which I can help you," Claire said, "you hardly need to have me say how glad I shall be to do so."

"Would you, I wonder? Would you help in a perplexity that seems to me to be growing into a downright danger, and which I more than half suspect you could avert?"

There was something so significant in her tone, that Claire looked at her in wonderment for a moment, then said, choosing her words with care:

"You surely know that I would be only too glad to help you in any way that was right, and of course you would not ask me to do anything that I thought wrong."

"Oh, I'm not so sure of that. You have such peculiar ideas of right and wrong. They are not according to my standard, I presume. How I wish I knew, without telling you, just what you would think right; it would settle several questions for me, or else it would unsettle me, for I might not want to do what was right, you see, any more than you would want to do what was wrong."

"I am not a witch," said Claire, lightly, "and I confess that I have no more idea what you mean than if you were speaking in Sanscrit. Suppose you speak English for a few minutes, my friend, and enlighten me."

"I will, presently. I want to ask you a few general questions first, which have nothing special to do with the question at hand. Would you marry a man who was not a Christian?"

"No," said Claire, wondering, startled yet nevertheless prompt enough with her answer; "that is, I do not now see how I could. In the first place, I would not be likely to have the opportunity; for I could not be sufficiently interested in a man who had no sympathy with me in these vital questions, to ever reach the point as to my possible opportunities and duties."

"Oh, well, that doesn't materially enlighten me. You see I am talking about people who could become sufficiently interested to reach a great many questionings, and not know what to do with them. Let me suppose a case. We will say the people live in China, and become deeply interested in each other. In the course of time one of them goes to the Fiji Islands for instance, and meets a missionary, and comes somewhat under her influence—enough, we will say, to make her uncomfortable and to make her suspect that she is a good deal of a heathen herself, though she was a member in good and regular standing of a church in China. To make the circumstances more interesting you may suppose that one of the converted heathen begins to interest himself in her, and to enlighten her as to the power of genuine religion over the heathen heart and mind to such an extent that she is almost sure she knows nothing about it experimentally; and at the same time has a yearning desire to know and to receive the mysterious something which she discovers in this one. We will also suppose that she receives letters from China occasionally, which show her that the other party has met neither missionary nor heathen to impress him in any way, and that his plans and determinations are all of the earth and decidedly earthy, and yet that he is disposed to think that the lady ought to be thinking about returning to China, and joining him in his effort to have a good time. What, in your estimation, ought the half-awakened Fiji resident to do?"

"Alice, is some not very distant city representing China? and is South Plains Fiji? and is Bud the converted heathen?"

"There is enough witch about you to have secured you a very warm experience in the olden days. Never mind translating, if you please; this was not to be in English. What ought the Fiji to do?"

"I should think there could be no question. A half-awakened person would still be in danger of dropping back into darkness, and should, as surely as she believes in the petition, 'lead me not into temptation,' guard against anything that would be a contradiction to that prayer."

"Well, but suppose this half-awakened person were married to the party in China—what then?"

"That would be a very different matter. The irrevocable vows would have been taken before the world; the 'until death do you part' would have been accepted, and there would be no liberty of choice."

"I don't see the reasoning clearly. Suppose a person should take a vow to commit murder, and announce her determination before the world to do so, with as solemn a vow as you please, ought her conscience to hold her? Not," she added, with a slight and embarrassed laugh, "that I would put the idea of murder as a parallel case with the other imagining. I don't mean anything, you know, by all this, I am simply dealing with some imaginary people in China."

But Claire did not smile, and held herself carefully to the analogy of the illustration:

"You are supposing a moral impossibility, Alice. No one would be allowed to take a public and solemn oath to commit murder. The very oath would be a violation of the laws of God and of the land; but in the other case, the oath taken professes to be in keeping with God's revealed will and with the demands of respectable society. Surely, you see what an infinite difference this would make."

"Ah, yes, of course. Well, I'll suppose one thing more. For purposes of convenience, let us have these two people engaged to each other, but the pledge not consummated before the public—what then?"

But over this question Claire kept a troubled silence.

"I do not know," she said, at last; "I am not sure how that ought to be answered. Perhaps it is one of the things which each individual is called upon to answer for himself, or herself, taking it to God for special light. A betrothal seems to me a very solemn thing, not to be either entered into, or broken, lightly, and yet I can conceive of circumstances wherein it would be right to break the pledge—where it was wrong ever to have made it—and two wrongs cannot make a right, you know. But Alice, this is dangerous ground. I am almost inclined to think it is ground where a third party, on the human side, should not intermeddle; at least, unless it is one who has far more wisdom than I. It is not possible for me to advise you in this."

"You have advised me," Alice said, with exceeding gravity. "All I wanted was your individual opinion, and that you have given plainly, though you may not be aware of it. When one knows one is doing a thing that is wrong, I suppose the time has come to draw back."

"If the drawing back can right the wrong."

"It can help toward it. These people—who live in China, remember—are perhaps among those who ought never to have made the pledge. However, let us drop them. I want to talk to you about a more important matter."

Still she did not talk, but relapsed again into troubled silence, and Claire, not knowing what to say, waited, and said nothing.

"Would you marry a man, if you thought you might possibly be the means of saving his soul?"

Claire was startled and a trifle disturbed to think that the conversation was still to run in a channel with which she was so unfamiliar. Still, this first question was comparatively easy to deal with.

"That might depend on whether I could do so without assuming false vows. I could not promise a lie for the sake of saving any soul. Besides, it being wrong in itself, I would have no reason to hope that it would be productive of any good, for God does not save souls by means which are sinful. Why do you ask me all these questions, Alice? I have no experience, and am not wise. I wish you would seek a better counselor."

"Never mind, I have all the counsel I desire. I am not talking about those people in China any more, though you think I am. I was thinking of you, and of somebody who is in danger, and whom I believe you could save, but I know you won't—at least not in that way. Claire Benedict, I am troubled about my brother. Tell me this, do you know that he is in danger?"

"Yes," said Claire, her voice low and troubled.

"Do you know from what source I mean?"

"I think I do."

"I thought you did else I am not sure that my pride would have allowed me to open my lips. Well, do you know there is something you might do to help him?"

"Alice."

"No, you are not to interrupt me. I don't mean anything insulting. There are ways of which I would be more sure, and they are connected with you, but I know they are out of the question. I am not going to talk of them. But there is something I want you to do. I want you to talk with mamma. It is of no use for me to say a word to her. There are family reasons why she is specially vexed with me just now, and will not listen reasonably to anything that I might say. But she respects you, and likes you, and you have more or less influence over her. Are you willing to use it for Louis' sake?"

"But, my dear Alice, I do not understand you in the least. What could I say to your mother that she does not already know? and in any case, how could she materially help your brother? He needs the help of his own will."

"That is true, but there are ways in which mamma might help him, if she would. I can tell you of some. In the first place, you are mistaken as to her knowledge. She knows, it is true, that he takes more wine occasionally than is good for him, and has violent headaches in consequence; but she does not know that two nights in a week, at least, he comes home intoxicated! Isn't that a terrible thing to say of one's brother? What has become of the Ansted pride, when I can say it to almost a stranger?"

"Why does not your mother know?"

"Partly because she is blind, and partly because I have promised Louis not to tell her, and partly because there are reasons why it would be especially hard on my mother to have this knowledge brought to her through me. You see there are reasons enough. Now for what she could do. Claire, she fairly drives him into temptation. There is a certain house in the city which she is very anxious to see united to ours. She contrives daily pretexts for sending Louis there, and it is almost impossible for him to go there without coming home the worse for liquor. I wish I could talk more plainly to you. I will tell you this. There is a brother as well as a sister in that house, and it has been a pet dream of my mother to exchange the sons and daughters. It is a romantic, Old World scheme, grown up with the families from their early days; and mamma, who has never been accustomed to having her plans thwarted, is in danger of seeing all of these come to naught, and more than half believes that I am plotting against it for Louis, having first shown myself to be an undutiful and ungrateful daughter. Do you see how entirely my tongue is silenced? I wonder if you do understand?"

"I understand, my dear friend, and I thank you for your confidence; but I do not see how a stranger can help, or indeed, can interfere in any way, without being guilty of gross rudeness. How could I hope to approach your mother on such subjects as these, without having her feel herself insulted?"

Alice made a gesture of impatience.

"You can not," she said, "if you think more of the irritable words that a troubled mother may say to you than you do of a soul in peril; but I did not think you were of that sort."

Claire waited a moment before replying.

"I think I may be trusted to try to do what seems right, even though it were personally hard," she said at last, speaking very gently; "but, Alice, I do not understand how words of mine could do other than mischief."

"I can show you. This family, I have told you, is a continual snare to Louis. He simply can not go there without being led into great temptation, and mamma is responsible for the most of his visits. It would not be difficult for Louis to remain away, if mamma did not make errands for him. He would go abroad with the Husons next week, and be safe from this and many other temptations, or he would go to the Rocky Mountains with Harold Chessney—and he could not be in better society—if mamma would give her consent, and she would, if she could be made to realize his peril—if she knew that outsiders were talking about it. Don't you see?

"Now, who is going to enlighten her? I am not in favor—less so just at present than ever before; the girls, poor young things, do not know of our disgrace, and would have no influence with mamma if they did, and papa would like the alliance from a business point of view as well as mamma would from a romantic and fashionable one. Do you see the accumulation of troubles? and do you imagine, I wonder, what it is to me, when I have humbled myself to tell it all to you?"

"And this young lady?" said Claire, ignoring the personal questions. "Do you feel sure that there is no hope of help from that source? Is not her interest deep enough and her influence strong enough to come to the rescue if she fully understood?"

There was again that gesture of extreme impatience.

"That young lady! She has no more character than a painted doll! Claire Benedict, she is in as great danger to-day as Louis is, and from the same source! She dances every night, and buoys up her flagging strength by stimulants every day. I have seen her repeatedly when she was so excited with wine that I knew she did not know what she was saying."

"Is it possible!" This was Claire's startled exclamation.

"It is not only possible, but is an almost daily occurrence. And she fills the glass with her own silly little hand, which trembles at the moment with the excitement of wine, and holds it to my brother, and he, poor, foolish boy! accepts it because he knows that he likes it better than anything else in the world—at least, that is attainable. Claire, if my mother could be prevailed upon to urge Louis to go away with Harold Chessney, I believe he might be saved."

"Who is Harold Chessney?"

"He is one of God's saints, made for the purpose of showing us what a man might be, if he would. Claire Benedict, will you try?"