tempting doors. It is called the way of death and hell. What makes
it accursed and our home saloon harmless? It is all wrong, Mr.
Birtwell--all wrong, wrong, wrong! and to-day we are tasting some of
the fruit, the bitterness of which, I fear, will be in our mouths so
long as we both shall live."

Mrs. Birtwell broke down, and sinking back in her chair, covered her
face with her hands.

"I must go to Frances," she said, rising after a few moments.

"Not now, Margaret," interposed her husband. "Wait for a while.
Archie is neither murdered nor frozen to death; you may take my word
for that. Wait until the morning advances, and he has time to put in
an appearance, as they say. Henry can go round after breakfast and
make inquiry about him. If he is still absent, then you might call
and see Mrs. Voss. At present the snow lies inches deep and unbroken
on the street, and you cannot possibly go out."

Mrs. Birtwell sat down again, her countenance more distressed.

"Oh, if it hadn't happened in our house!" she said. "If this awful
thing didn't lie at our door!"

"Good Heavens, Margaret! why will you take on so? Any one hearing
you talk might think us guilty of murder, or some other dreadful
crime. Even if the worst fears are realized, no blame can lie with
us. Parties are given every night, and young men, and old men too,
go home from them with lighter heads than when they came. No one is
compelled to drink more than is good for him. If he takes too much,