Virginia sat late at her work. Or rather, she sat before the desk which contained her work and fought the battle which is as old as our conception of a woman’s duty. She had that day listened to words of love from a man whom her heart rose up to answer—she, betrothed to Parke Winchester. Hasn’t a woman a right to change her mind? Ah, but Parke—his salvation as well as his happiness was in her hands! Had he not told her so a hundred times? Was he not drinking hard, and going straight to the dogs when she was coaxed into this secret pact with him? If she let him go, if she pushed him away from her, would he not fall lower? Could she ever forgive herself? Then, she was uneasy about Fair; her young brother was evidently finding companions who did him no good. Twice he had come home of late so much under the influence of drink that she was put to the utmost of her powers to keep the matter from her father. She had no mother, she and Fair were the only children. In her desperation she had gone to Winchester; he would know, he would understand. She remembered the feverish eagerness with which he had answered her. “You know, of course, Virginia, that I haven’t touched a drop since you promised to marry me. I can’t bear the thought of the stuff now. But I’ll hang around some of the places where it’s sold and catch up with Fair. I can help him. I can save him for you, Virginia, honey, because I’ve been there myself.” Now, if she broke her word to Winchester she was losing more than her lover, for he had added fiercely, “But if you cast me off, if you break with me, I’ll go straight to the devil. You’ve got that on your conscience, little woman. I’ll go, and I’ll take Fair with me if I can. You’ve got the souls of two men in your keeping, for if you were my wife—as long as you have promised to be my wife—I’d as soon think of stealing a Bible from a church as taking a drink of whisky.” Then came the thought of the other man, whom she could really love—the man who would save his own soul and not ask the sacrifice of a woman’s happiness for his salvation. Yet, she reasoned, it was a marvelous thing that her influence should have kept her betrothed from even the desire for drink. She half wished for a moment that influence were not so great. Then she reproved herself, sighed and pushed the heavy, dark hair from off her forehead. A vagrant, scuffling sound from the hallway outside kept intruding upon her consciousness. Finally the little intermittent noise secured her attention, and then she thought a dog or a cat must have been left inside when the house was closed for the night. She stepped to the door, to be met by a shambling, bowing old figure, and Uncle Vete’s deprecating, apologetic face. “I hates ter ’sturb you, li’l Mis,” he protested. “I hates might’ly ter ’sturb you; but dey’s trouble out to my house—I spect you knows ’bout it, honey.”