'Better that we were than to go on as we do! Phoebe, it is wickedness.' There was a long pause. Robert rested his brow on his hand, Phoebe gazed intently at him, trying to unravel the idea so suddenly presented. She had reasoned it out before he looked up, and she roused him by softly saying, 'You mean that you do not like the manufacture of spirits because they produce so much evil.' Though he did not raise his head, she understood his affirmation, and went on with her quiet logic, for, poor girl, hers was not the happy maiden's defence--'What my father does cannot be wrong.' Without condemning her father, she instinctively knew that weapon was not in her armoury, and could only betake herself to the merits of the case. 'You know how much rather I would see you a clergyman, dear Robin,' she said; 'but I do not understand why you change your mind. We always knew that spirits were improperly used, but that is no reason why none should be made, and they are often necessary.' 'Yes,' he answered; 'but, Phoebe, I have learnt to-day that our trade is not supported by the lawful use of spirits. It is the ministry of hell.' Phoebe raised her startled eyes in astonished inquiry. 'I would have credited nothing short of the books, but there I find that not above a fifth part of our manufacture goes to respectable houses, where it is applied properly. The profitable traffic, which it is the object to extend, is the supply of the gin palaces of the city. The leases of most of those you see about here belong to the firm, it supplies them, and gains enormously on their receipts. It is to extend the dealings in this way that my legacy is demanded.' The enormity only gradually beginning to dawn upon Phoebe, all she said was a meditative--'You would not like that.' 'You did not realize it,' he said, nettled at her quiet tone. 'Do not you understand? You and I, and all of us, have eaten and drunk, been taught more than we could learn, lived in a fine house, and been made into ladies and gentlemen, all by battening on the vice and misery of this wretched population. Those unhappy men and women are lured into the gaudy palaces at the corners of the streets to purchase a moment's oblivion of conscience, by stinting their children of bread, that we may wear fine clothes, and call ourselves county people.' 'Do not talk so, Robert,' she exclaimed, trembling; 'it cannot be right to say such things--' 'It is only the bare fact! it is no pleasure to me to accuse my own father, I assure you, Phoebe, but I cannot blind myself to the simple truth.' 'He cannot see it in that light.' 'He _will_ not.' 'Surely,' faltered Phoebe, 'it cannot be so bad when one does not know it is--' 'So far true. The conscience does not waken quickly to evils with which our lives have been long familiar.' 'And Mervyn was brought up to it--' 'That is not my concern,' said Robert, too much in the tone of 'Am I my brother's keeper?'