"Is it possible!" This was Claire's startled exclamation.
"It is not only possible, but is an almost daily occurrence. And she fills the glass with her own silly little hand, which trembles at the moment with the excitement of wine, and holds it to my brother, and he, poor, foolish boy! accepts it because he knows that he likes it better than anything else in the world—at least, that is attainable. Claire, if my mother could be prevailed upon to urge Louis to go away with Harold Chessney, I believe he might be saved."
"Who is Harold Chessney?"
"He is one of God's saints, made for the purpose of showing us what a man might be, if he would. Claire Benedict, will you try?"
CHAPTER XXIII.
UNPALATABLE TRUTHS.
"YES," said Claire, "I will try."
But she said it with a long-drawn sigh. This was work that was utterly distasteful to her, and she saw but little hope of accomplishing anything by attempting it.
She wanted to fight the demon of alcohol wherever found—at least, she had thought that she did; but who would have supposed that it could bring her into such strange contact with Mrs. Russel Ansted?