The
real cause of Archie's death was the wine he had taken in the house
of her friend. But for that he could never have lost his way in the
streets of his native city, never have stepped from solid ground
into the engulfing water.
The lesson of this disaster was clear, and as Mrs. Voss brooded over
it, the folly, the wrong--nay, the crime--of those who pour out wine
like water for their guests in social entertainments magnified
themselves in her thought, and thought found utterance in speech.
Few came into her chamber upon whom she did not press a
consideration of this great evil, the magnitude of which became
greater as her mind dwelt upon it, and very few of these went away
without being disturbed by questions not easily answered.
One day one of her attentive friends who had called on her said:
"I heard a sorrowful story yesterday, and can't get it out of my
mind."
Before Mrs. Voss could reply a servant came in with a card.
"Oh, Mrs. Birtwell. Ask her to come up."
The visitor saw a slight shadow creep over her face, and knew its
meaning. How could she ever hear the name or look into the face of
Mrs. Birtwell without thinking of that dreadful night when her boy
passed, almost at a single step, from the light and warmth of her
beautiful home into the dark and frozen river? It had cost her a
hard and painful struggle to so put down and hold in check her
feelings as to be able to meet this friend, who had always been very
near and dear to her.
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