Gifford smiled, and owned good-naturedly that he was a heathen. "But I think," he said, "the thing which keeps the town back most is liquor."
"It is, indeed," John answered, eagerly. "If it could be banished!"
"High license is the only practical remedy," said Gifford, his face full of interest; but John's fell.
"No, no, not that; no compromise with sin will help us. I would have it impossible to find a drop of liquor in Lockhaven."
"What would you do in case of sickness?" Gifford asked curiously.
"I wouldn't have it used."
"Oh, John, dear," Helen protested, "don't you think that's rather extreme? You know it's life or death sometimes: a stimulant has to be used, or a person would die. Suppose I had to have it?"
His face flushed painfully. "Death is better than sin," he said slowly and gently; "and you, if you——I don't know, Helen; no one knows his weakness until temptation comes." His tone was so full of trouble, Gifford, feeling the sudden tenderness of his own strength, said good-naturedly, "What do you think of us poor fellows who confess to a glass of claret at dinner?"
"And what must he have thought of the dinner-table at the rectory?" Helen added.
"I don't think I noticed it," John said simply. "You were there."