Against the name of the church, too, as she wraps her righteous robes around herself and will not, in her dignity and purity, set her mighty foot on the neck of the curse, while drunkards by unnumbered thousands stagger under her colored glass windows to Hell, he writes WHAT FOR? and the letters burn on.
Against the name of the Christian whose vote makes strong the party that legalizes the saloon and the drunkard he writes "WHAT FOR?"
What man shall stand in the presence of the Holy One, when the books are opened, and tell WHAT FOR?
CHAPTER IX.
GILBERT ALLISON HEARS A VOICE.
It was this night that two travelers were journeying across a bit of suburban country toward their city homes. They were out later than they had expected to be, perhaps. At any rate, it was somewhere close to the hour of midnight and they were approaching an old graveyard.
As they neared the ancient burying ground Mr. Allison, for he was one of the riders, became less talkative, and rode closer to his friend, a young man of about his own age.
"Hist, Sammy! Didn't you hear something? Ah! Now it has gone again. You were not quick enough. Keep your ear open. At the turning of the wind it may come again."