"When it interferes with their bread and butter, I do."
"Father, if you would drink no wine, we could all of us have as much bread and butter as we choose."
"You are always harping on that!" said Mr. Copley, frowning.
"Because, our whole life depends on it, father. You cannot bear wine as some people can, I suppose; the habit is growing on you; mother and I are losing you, we do not even have but half a sight of you; and—father—we are wanting necessaries. But I do not think of that," Dolly went on eagerly; "I do not care; I am willing to live on dry bread, and work for the means to get it; but I cannot bear to lose you, father! I cannot bear it!—and it will kill mother. She does not know; I have kept her from knowing; she knows nothing about what happened last night. O father, do not let her know! Would anything pay you for breaking her heart and mine? Is wine more to you than we are? O father, father! let us go home to America, and quit all these people and associations that make it so hard for you to be yourself. I want you to be your dear old self, father! Your dear self, that I love"——
Dolly's voice was choked, and she sobbed. Mr. Copley was not quite insensible. He was silent a good while, hearing her sobs, and then he groaned; a groan partly of real feeling, partly, I am afraid, of desire to have the scene ended; the embarrassment and the difficulty disposed of and behind him. But he thought it had been an expression of deeper feeling solely.
"I'll do anything you like, my dear child," he said. "Only stop crying. You break my heart."
"Father, will you really do something if I ask you?"
"Anything! Only stop crying so."
"Then, father, write and sign it, that you will not ever touch wine. Rupert and I have taken such a pledge already."
"What is the use of writing and signing? I don't see. A man can let it alone without that."