"You know that he has stopped drinking?"
"Yes, I heard so."
"It is true. He looks fine, fine. Brown and strong."
"I didn't think he ever could do it," said she, shaking her head. "He is fighting a battle he has lost so often."
"There is none who could help him so much in his struggle as you."
"Oh, there," she answered quickly and bitterly, "I think you are mistaken. He has paid very little attention to me or my wishes for four or five years past."
"Then," said the priest, "he has learned his lesson, for now he depends on you more than on any other person."
She did not answer, but closed her eyes and clenched her fists as tightly as she could, summoning her will to resist. But she realized that her will, like her body, was not in health. The sick bed is the priest's harvest time.
"My child," he said gently, "there is a human soul struggling for its salvation. Will you help or hinder it?"
"I do not think that is quite a fair way to put it."