"One doesn't have to like it to drink it, you know." "He could stop it if he tried." "Like a flash. But he isn't going to try. At least, not until he feels that it's worth while." She looked up quickly. "What do you mean by that?" Without waiting for him to answer, she went on: "How can you expect me to do anything to help him? I am sorry for him, but—but, heavens and earth, Simmy, I can't preach temperance to a man who kicked me out of his house when he was sober, can I?" "You loved him, didn't you?" She flushed deeply. "I—I—oh, certainly." "Never have quite got over loving him, as a matter of fact," said he, watching her closely. She drew a long breath. "You're right, Simmy. I've never ceased to care for him. That's what makes it so hard for me to see him going to the dogs, as you say." "I said 'going to the devil,'" corrected Simmy resolutely. She laid her hand upon his arm. Her face was white now and her eyes were dark with pain. "I shiver when I think of him, Simmy, but not with dread or revulsion. I am always thinking of the days when he held me tight in those big, strong arms of his,—and that's what makes me shiver. I adored being in his arms. I shall never forget. People said that he would never amount to anything. They said that he was too strong to work and all that sort of thing. He didn't think much of himself, but I _know_ he would have come through all right. He is the best of his breed, I can tell you that. Think how young he was when we were married! Little more than a boy. He has never had a chance to be a man. He is still a boy, puzzled and unhappy because he can't think of himself as anything but twenty,—the year when everything stopped for him. He's twenty-five now, but he doesn't know it. He is still living in his twenty-first year." "I've never thought of it in that light," said Simmy, considerably impressed. "I say, Lutie, if you care so much for him, why not—" He stopped in some confusion. Clearly he had been on the point of trespassing on dangerous ground. He wiped his forehead.