stered out of service.

Albert Martindale left his home, as did thousands of other young
men, with his blood untouched by the fire of alcohol, and returned
from the war, as thousands of other young men returned, with its
subtle poison in all his veins.

The dread of this very thing had haunted his mother during all the
years of his absence in the army.

"Oh, Agnes," she had often said to me, with eyes full of tears, "it
is not the dread of his death that troubles me most. I have tried to
adjust that sad event between myself and God. In our fearful crisis
he belongs to his country. I could not withhold him, though my heart
seemed breaking when I let him go. I live in the daily anticipation
of a telegram announcing death or a terrible wound. Yet that is not
the thing of fear I dread; but something worse--his moral defection.
I would rather he fell in battle than come home to me with manhood
wrecked. What I most dread is intemperance. There is so much
drinking among officers. It is the curse of our army. I pray that he
may escape; yet weep, and tremble, and fear while I pray. Oh, my
friend I think his fall into this terrible vice would kill me."

Alas for my friend! Her son came home to her with tainted breath and
fevered blood. It did not kill her. Love held her above despair, and
gave her heart a new vitality. She must be a savior; not a weak
mourner over wrecked hopes.

With what a loving care and wise discretion did she set herself to
work to withdraw her son from the dangerous path in which his feet
were walking! and she would have been successful, but for one thing.
The customs of society were against her. She could not keep him away
from the parties and evening entertainments of her friends; and here
all the good resolutions she had led him to make were as flax fibres
in the flame of a candle. He had no strength to resist when wine
sparkled and flashed all around him, and bright eyes and ruby lips
invited him to drink. It takes more than ordinary firmness of
principle to abstain in a fashionable company of ladies and
gentlemen, where wine and brandy flow as water. In the case of
Albert Martindale, two things were against him. He was not strong
enough to set himself against any tide of custom, in the first
place; and in the second, he had the allurement of appetite.

I knew all this, when, with my own hand, I wrote on one of our cards
of invitation, "Mr. and Mrs. Martindale and family;" but did not
think of i