“Oh, it is terrible!” exclaimed the matron. “Perhaps it is best—”
“Mrs. Blair!” Miss Beale turned upon her in consternation. Then she bent over the man.
“You can’t have whisky,” she said gently; “not if I thought you were really dying would I give it to you. If it is the Lord’s will that you are to die here you must abide by it. I shall not permit you to further imperil your soul. Nor could that which has not the blessing of God on it be of benefit to you. Alcohol is a destroyer, both of soul and of body—not a medicine.”
The man’s knees suddenly shot up to his chest; but he raised his head and darted at her a glance of implacable hate.
“Damn you,” he stuttered. “Murderer—” Then he extended rigid arms and clutched the bed clothes, his body twitching uncontrollably.
Miss Beale looked upon him with deep compassion. “Poor thing,” she exclaimed, “is not this enough to warn all men from that fiend?” She laid her hand on the man’s head, but he shook it off with an oath.
“Whisky,” he cried. “O my God! Have these women—women!—no pity?”
“I’m going for whisky—” said Patience.
Miss Beale stepped swiftly to the door, locked it, and slipped the key into her pocket.
“You will buy no whisky,” she said sternly. “I will save you from that sin.” Suddenly her face lit up. “I will pray,” she said solemnly, “I will pray that this poor lost creature may recover, and lead a better life—”