I urged, after a minute's pause, that Treherne was neither a child nor a boy; that he had passed through the early perils of youth, and succumbed to none; that there was little fear he would ever become a drunkard. "He may." "Please God, he never shall! Even if he had yielded to temptation; if, even in your sense, and mine, Mr. Johnston, the young man had once been 'drunk,' should he for that be branded as a hopeless drunkard? I think not--I trust not." And, strongly excited myself, I pleaded for the lad as if I had been pleading for my own life,--but in vain. It was getting late, and I was in momentary dread of another summons to the drawing-room. In cases like these there comes a time when, be our opponents younger or older, inferior or superior to ourselves, we feel we must assert what we believe to be right, "taking the upper hand," as it is called; that is, using the power which the few have in guiding the many. Call it influence, decision, will,--one who possesses that quality rarely gets through half a lifetime without discovering the fact, and what a weighty and solemn gift it is. I said to Mr. Johnston, very respectfully, yet resolutely, that, in so serious a matter, of which I myself was the unhappy cause, I must request him, as a personal favour, to postpone his decision for to-night. "And," I continued, "forgive my urging that, both as a father and a clergyman, you are bound to be careful how you decide. By one fatal word you may destroy your daughter's happiness for life." I saw him start; I struck bolder. "Also, as Captain Treherne's friend, let me remind you that he has a future, too. It is a dangerous thing for a young man's future when he is thwarted in his first love. What if he should go all wrong, and you had to answer to Sir William Treherne for the ruin of his only son?" I was not prepared for the effect of my words. "His only son--God forgive me! is he his only son?" Mr. Johnston turned from me; his hands shook violently, his whole countenance changed. In it there was as much remorse and anguish as if he, in his youth, had been some old man's only and perhaps erring son. I could pity him--if he were one of those who suffer to their life's end for the evil deeds of their youth. I abstained from any further remarks, and he made none. At last, as he expressed some wish to be left alone, I rose. "Doctor," he said, in a tremulous voice, "I will thank you not to name this conversation to my family. For the subject of it--we'll pass it over--this once." I thanked him, and earnestly begged forgiveness for any warmth I had shown in the argument. "Oh yes, oh yes! Did I not say we would pass it over?" He sank wearily back in his arm-chair, but I felt the point was gained.