The man turned to her eagerly. “Bless you,” he said. “It’s not the taste of it I’m craving, miss; it’s relief from this awful agony. If you give it to me, I swear I’ll try never to touch a drop again after I get over this spree. It’ll be bad enough to break off then, but it’s death now.” Mrs. Blair looked at him with pity, but shook her head. “I’ve been here seven years,” she said to Patience, “and the ladies have yet to find one fault with me. I don’t dare give it to him. Besides, I don’t believe in it. How can what’s killing him cure him? And it’s a sin. Even if the ladies excused me—which they wouldn’t—I’d never forgive myself.” “I’ll take the responsibility,” said Patience. “I believe that man will die if he doesn’t have whisky.” The man groaned and tossed his arms. “Oh, my God!” he cried. Mrs. Blair shuddered. “Oh, I don’t know, miss. If you will take the responsibility—I can’t give it to him—where could you get it?” “At a drug store.” “They won’t sell it to you—we’ve got a law passed, you know.” “Then I’ll go to a saloon.” “Oh, my! my!” cried Mrs. Blair, “you’d never do that?” “The man is in agony. Can’t you see? I’m going this minute.” The door opened, and Miss Beale entered. She looked warm and tired, but came forward with active step, and stood beside the bed. A spasm of disgust crossed her face. “What is the matter, my man?” she asked. “I am sorry to see you here.” “Give me whisky,” groaned the man. Miss Beale turned away with twitching mouth. “The man is dying. Nothing but whisky can save him,” said Patience. “If you called a doctor he would tell you the same thing.” “What?” said Miss Beale, coldly, “do you suppose that he can have whisky in Temperance Hall? Is that what we are here for? You must be crazy.” “But you don’t want him to die on your hands, do you?” exclaimed Patience, who was losing her temper. “My God!” screeched the man, “I am in Hell.” “My good man,” said Miss Beale, gently, “it is for us to save you from Hell, not to send you there.” “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” His voice died to an inarticulate murmur; but he writhed, and doubled, and twisted, as men may have done when fanatics tortured in the name of religion. “Good heavens, Miss Beale,” cried Patience, excitedly, “you can’t set yourself up in opposition to nature. That man must have whisky. If he were younger and stronger it wouldn’t matter so much; but can’t you see he hasn’t strength to resist the terrible strain? The torture is killing him, eating out his life—” “Oh, it is terrible!” exclaimed the matron. “Perhaps it is best—” “Mrs. Blair!” Miss Beale turned upon her in consternation. Then she bent over the man.