"I wouldn't have it used." "Oh, John, dear," Helen protested, "don't you think that's rather extreme? You know it's life or death sometimes: a stimulant has to be used, or a person would die. Suppose I had to have it?" His face flushed painfully. "Death is better than sin," he said slowly and gently; "and you, if you----I don't know, Helen; no one knows his weakness until temptation comes." His tone was so full of trouble, Gifford, feeling the sudden tenderness of his own strength, said good-naturedly, "What do you think of us poor fellows who confess to a glass of claret at dinner?" "And what must he have thought of the dinner-table at the rectory?" Helen added. "I don't think I noticed it," John said simply. "You were there." "There, Helen, that's enough to make you sign the pledge!" said Gifford. He watched them walking down the street, under the arching ailantus, their footsteps muffled by the carpet of the fallen blossoms; and there was a thoughtful look on his face when he went into his office, and, lighting his lamp, sat down to look over some papers. "How is that going to come out?" he said to himself. "Neither of those people will amend an opinion, and Ward is not the man to be satisfied if his wife holds a belief he thinks wrong." But researches into the case of McHenry _v._ Coggswell put things so impractical as religious beliefs out of his mind. As for John and Helen, they walked toward the parsonage, and Gifford, and his future, and his views of high license were forgotten, as well as the sudden pain with which John had heard his wife's careless words about his "awful doctrines." "It is very pleasant to see him so often," John said, "but how good it is to have you all to myself!" Helen gave him a swift, glad look; then their talk drifted into those sweet remembrances which happy husbands and wives know by heart: what he thought when he first saw her, how she wondered if he would speak to her. "And oh, Helen," he said, "I recollect the dress you wore,--how soft and silky it was, but it never rustled, or gleamed; it rested my eyes just to look at it." A little figure was coming towards them down the deserted street, with a jug clasped in two small grimy hands. "Preacher!" cried a childish voice eagerly, "good-evenin', preacher." John stopped and bent down to see who it was, for a tangle of yellow hair almost hid the little face. "Why, it is Molly," he said, in his pleasant voice. "Where have you been, my child? Oh, yes, I see,--for dad's beer?" Molly was smiling at him, proud to be noticed. "Yes, preacher," she answered, wagging her head. "Good-night, preacher." But they had gone only a few steps when there was a wail. Turning her head to watch him out of sight, Molly had tripped, and now all that was left of the beer was a yellow scum of froth on the dry ground. The jug was unbroken, but the child could find no comfort in that.