blame, I should like to
know?" he asked, savagely. "Didn't he give me the sugar to sip from the
bottom of his brandy glass in my babyhood? Haven't I drank my wine at
his table, sitting by his side, three times a day for at least fifteen
years? Haven't I seen him frown on every effort at temperance reform
throughout the country? Haven't I seen him sneer at my weak, feeble
efforts to break away from the demon with which he has constantly
tempted me? If he didn't rear me up for a drunkard, what in the name of
heaven _am_ I designed for after such a training?"

"Pliny," said Theodore, speaking low and with great significance, "for
what do you suppose _my_ father designed and reared _me_?"

One evening, months before, Theodore had, in much pain and shrinking,
told the whole sad story of his early life to Pliny, told it in the
vague hope that it might some day be a help to him. Now, as he referred
to it, Pliny answered only with a toss and a groan, and then was
entirely silent. At last he spoke again in a quieter, but utterly
despairing tone.

"Mallery, you don't know anything about it. I tell you I was _born_ with
this appetite; I inherited it, if you will; it is my father's legacy to
me, and the taste has been petted and fostered in every imaginable way;
you need not talk of my manhood to me. I have precious little of that
article left. No mortal knows it better than I do myself; I would sell
what little I have for a glass of brandy this minute."

Theodore came over to him and laid a quiet hand on the flushed and
throbbing temples. "I know all about it, my friend;" he said, gently. "I
know more about this thing in some respects than you do; remember the
atmosphere in which I spent my early boyhood; remember what _my_ father
is. Oh, I know how hard it is so well, that it seems to me almost
impossible for one in his own strength to be freed; but, Pliny, why
_will_ you not accept a helper? One who is mighty to save? I do solemnly
assure you that in him you would _certainly_ find the strength you
need."

Pliny moved restlessly, and spoke gloomily, "You are talking a foreign
language to me, Mallery. I don't understand anything about that sort of
thing, you know."

"Yes, I know. But, what has that to do with it? I am asking you why you
_will_ not? How is it possible that you can desire to be released from
this bondage; can feel your own insufficiency, and yet will not accept
aid?"

"And I am telling you that I don't unde