"He doesn't need time," pleaded her visitor. "He can hear both prayers at once. He can save both you and Tode in a second of time; and he loves you and is waiting." This was her answer: "O Lord, don't let Tode ever touch a drop of rum." All that woman's soul was swallowed up in the one great longing. Unable longer to endure the scene in silence, John Birge dropped on his knees and said: "Lord Jesus, hear this prayer for her boy, and save this poor woman who will not pray for herself." The words seemed to arrest her attention. "What do _you_ care?" she added, at length. "The Lord Jesus cares. He died to save you." Then John Birge repeated his prayer, adding a few simple words. The little silence that followed was broken by the repetition of the poor woman's one solemn sentence: "O Lord, don't let Tode ever touch a drop of rum." "And save me," added John Birge. "And save me"--her lips took up the sentence--"for Jesus' sake." "For Jesus' sake." The next time she added these words of her own accord; and again and again was the solemn cry repeated, until there came a sudden changing of the purple shadows into solemn ashy gray, and with one half-murmured effort, "not a drop of rum" and "for Jesus' sake," the voice was forever hushed. The neighbor watcher was the first to break the stillness. "Well, I never in all my life!" she ejaculated, speaking solemnly. "For the land's sake! I wish every rum-seller in the world could a heard her. Well, her troubles is over, Mr. Birge. Now, what's to be done next?" "Is she anything to you, Mary, except an acquaintance?" "I'm thankful to say she ain't. If she had been I'd expect to die of shame for letting her die in this hole. She's a neighbor of mine, at least I live around the corner; but I don't know much about her, only that her man comes home drunk about every night, and tears around like a wild beast." Which last recalled to John's remembrance the reason of his being in that room. "Is that her husband lying out there?" he asked, nodding toward the door. "Yes, it is. Been there long enough to know something by this time, I should think, too." "It seems to me the first thing to be done is to get him in here; it isn't decent to leave him in this storm." "It's decenter than he deserves, in my opinion, enough sight," Mary muttered. Nevertheless they went toward the door, and with infinite pains and much fearful swearing from the partially roused man, they succeeded in pushing and pulling and dragging him inside the cellar on the floor, when he immediately sank back into heavy sleep. "Isn't he a picture of a man, now?" said the sturdy Mary, with a face and gesture of intense disgust. "I would rather be he than the man who sold him the rum," her companion answered, solemnly. "Well, Mary, have you time to stay here awhile, or must you go at once?" "I'll _take_ time, sir. Feelings is feelings, if I be poor; and I can't leave the boy and all, like this."