of his nature endeavoring to overcome the craving of his appetite
and the sophistry of his tempter--he concluded he would just take
a little now to help him over this one trouble, and then he would
give it up forever. He argued to himself, "I could not live
through another attack, for I am sure the dreadful suffering is
akin to the horrors of the host."

"Well, Ginsling," he said, "I think I will take your advice." He
was half ashamed thus to speak, because he was about to do
something for which his conscience strongly condemned him, and
also because he felt he was manifesting weakness and vacillation
in the presence of one whom he, in his heart, despised, and who,
after this, would hold similar sentiments in regard to himself.
"I do feel a little unlike myself this morning, and as the wind is
rather squally, and the captain says when we shoot out beyond the
point the lake will be wild, I need a little something to settle
my stomach; I have a fearful dread of sea-sickness." He said this
partly to justify his conduct to his companion, but more to
convince himself he was about to take a step which was not only
perfectly justifiable, but, under the circumstances, a manifestation
of wisdom.

If a man is about to perform an action of doubtful propriety, he
is never at a loss to find arguments to defend the course he is
about to pursue, and though he may not be able to satisfy his
conscience, he can, at least to some extent, deaden the acuteness
of its pangs. Richard Ashton endeavored to justify his present
action to himself, in the moment which intervened between his
new-formed resolution and its consummation. The reader is no doubt
aware, from experience, that a great deal will pass through the