or
that; and our sins will lie upon our own heads if we ever let yon
death-trap be opened again!"

Just then Sandy Braden, wearing a black suit, drove into the yard and
tied up his horse.

* * *

The little house was filled to overflowing with women; the men stood
bareheaded around the door. Mrs. Cavers sat beside the coffin with an
arm around Libby Anne. Mrs. Steadman, with the cerise roses still
nodding in her hat, said on the way home that it did seem queer to
her that Mrs. Cavers and Libby Anne did not shed a tear. Mrs.
Steadman did not understand that there is a limit even to tears and
that Libby Anne in her short years had seen sadder sights than even
this.

The Reverend John Burrell conducted the funeral.

"Shall we gather at the river?" he gave out as the first hymn. Some
sang it falteringly; they had their own ideas of Bill's chances in
the next world, and did not consider the "river" just the proper
figure of speech to describe it.

The minister then read that old story of the poor man who went down
to Jericho and fell among thieves. Mr. Burrell's long experience with
men had made him a plain and pointed speaker, and given him that rare
gift, convincing earnestness. Now he laid his hand on the coffin and
spoke in a clear, ringing voice, that carried easily to every person
in the house and to those who stood around the door.

"Here is a man who is a victim of our laws," he said, in beginning.
"This is not an exceptional case. Men are being ruthlessly murdered
every day from the same cause; this is not the only home that it has
darkened. It is going on all over this land and all the time because
we are willing, for the sake of a few dollars' revenue, to allow one
man to grow rich on the failings of others. We know the consequences
of this; we know that men will be killed, body and soul, that women
will go broken-hearted, that little children will be cheated of
their childhood. This scene to-day--the dead man in his coffin, the
sad-faced wife and child, the open grave on the hillside--is a part
of the Traffic. They belong to the business just as much as the
sparkling decanters and the sign above the door. Every one of you,
no doubt, has foretold this day. I wonder have you done anything to
prevent it? Let none of us presume to judge the brother who has gone.
I would rather take my chances before the judgment-seat of God with
him, the victim, who has paid for his folly with his life, than with
any one o