I
can tell you that."

"Oh, come now, Idy, you hadn't ought to be so mad; I hadn't signed the
pledge yet."

He took a step toward her. The girl put out her hands warningly, and
then clasped her arms about herself with a shudder.

"Don't you come near me, Parker Lowe," she gasped. "What do I care about
the pledge! Didn't you _tell_ me you'd stop drinkin'? Won't a man that
tells lies with his tongue tell 'em with his fingers? Do you suppose I'd
marry a man that 'u'd come to me smellin' of whiskey, an' _him_ lyin'
sick in there? Can't you see that he's worth ten thousand such folks as
you an' me? I don't want a man that can't see that! I'm done with you,
Parker Lowe,"--her voice broke into a dry sob; "I want you to go away
and stay away! It ain't the drinkin'--it's _him_--can't you understand?"

And Parker, as he climbed toward his lonesome cabin, understood.

THE COMPLICITY OF ENOCH EMBODY.

I.

The afternoon train wound through the waving barley-fields of the
Temecula Valley and shrieked its approach to the town of Muscatel. It
was a mixed train, and half a dozen passengers alighted from the rear
coach to stretch their legs while the freight was being unloaded.

Enoch Embody stood on the platform with the mail-bag in his hand, and
listened to their time-worn pleasantries concerning the population of
the city and the probable cause of the failure of the electric cars to
connect with the train.

Enoch was an orthodox Friend. There was a hint of orthodoxy all over his
thin, shaven countenance, except at the corners of his mouth, where it
melted into the laxest liberality.

A swarthy young man, with a deep scar across his cheek, swung himself
from the platform of the smoking-car, and came toward him.

"Is there a stopping-place in this burg?" he called out gayly.

"Thee'll find a hotel up the street on thy right," said Enoch.

The stranger looked at him curiously.

"By gum, you're a Quaker," he broke out, slapping Enoch's thin, high
shoulder. "I haven't heard a 'thee' or a 'thou' since I was a kid. It's
good for earache. Wait till I get my grip."

He darted into the little group of men and boys, who were listening with
the grim appreciation of the rural American to the badinage of the
conductor and the station agent, and emerged with a satchel and a roll
of blankets.

"Now, uncle, I'm ready. Shall we take the elevated up to the city?" he
asked, smiling with gay goodfellowship up into Enoch's mild,