In his efforts at order, he spread his rug over the couch, tossed a crimson cushion on it and sundry articles beneath it to get them out of his way, then occupied himself with his book, while vainly trying to solve the riddle which his enigmatical caller presented to his imagination. All at once she rose, sought out a few dishes from the cupboard, and, taking a neatly smoothed, coarse cloth from the basket, spread it over one end of the table and arranged thereon his dinner. Quietly David watched her, following her example of silence until forced to speak. Finally he decided to question her, if only he could think of questions which would not trespass on her private affairs, when at last she broke the stillness. "I can't find any coffee. I ought to have brought some; I'll go fetch some if you'll eat now. Your dinner'll get cold." He showed her how he had made tea and was in no need of coffee. "We'll throw this out and make fresh," he said gayly. "Then you must have a cup with me. Why, you have enough to eat here for three people!" She seemed weary and sad, and he determined to probe far enough to elicit some confidence, but the more fluent he became, the more effectively she withdrew from him. "See here," he said at last, "sit by the table with me, and I will eat to your heart's content. I'll prepare you a cup of tea as I do my own, and then I want you to drink it. Come." She yielded. His way of saying "Come" seemed like a command to be obeyed. "Now, that is more like." He began his dinner with a relish. "Won't you share this game with me? It is fine, you know." He could not think her silent from embarrassment, for her poise seemed undisturbed except for the anxious look in her eyes. He determined to fathom the cause, and since no finesse availed, there remained but one way,--the direct question. "What is it?" he said kindly. "Tell me the trouble, and let me help you." She looked full into his eyes then, and her lips quivered. Something rose in her throat, and she swallowed helplessly. It was so hard for her to speak. The trouble had struck deeper than he dreamed. "It is a trouble, isn't it? Can't you tell it to me?" "Yes. I reckon there isn't any trouble worse than ours--no, I reckon there is nothing worse." "Why, Miss Cassandra!" "Because it's sin, and--and 'the wages of sin is death.'" Her tone was hopeless, and the sadness of it went to his heart. "Is it whiskey?" he asked. "Yes--it's whiskey 'stilling and--worse; it's--" She turned deathly white. Too sad to weep, she still held control of her voice. "It's a heap worse--" "Don't try to tell me what it is," he cried. "Only tell me how I may help you. It's not your sin, surely, so you don't have to bear it." "It's not mine, but I do have to bear it. I wish my bearing it was all. Tell me, if--if a man has done--such a sin, is it right to help him get away?"