“Now, really, Lillie, what can one have more than real old china and heavy silver plate?  I rather pique myself on that; I think it has quite a good, rich, solid old air.”

“Well, John, to say the truth, why do we never have any wine?  I don’t care for it,—­I never drink it; but the decanters, and the different colored glasses, and all the apparatus, are such an adornment; and then the Follingsbees are such judges of wine.  He imports his own from Spain.”

John’s face had been hardening down into a firm, decided look, while Lillie, stroking his whiskers and playing with his collar, went on with this address.

At last he said, “Lillie, I have done almost every thing you ever asked; but this one thing I cannot do,—­it is a matter of principle.  I never drink wine, never have it on my table, never give it, because I have pledged myself not to do it.”

“Now, John, here is some more of your Quixotism, isn’t it?”

“Well, Lillie, I suppose you will call it so,” said John; “but listen to me patiently.  My father and I labored for a long time to root out drinking from our village at Spindlewood.  It seemed, for the time, as if it would be the destruction of every thing there.  The fact was, there was rum in every family; the parents took it daily, the children learned to love and long after it, by seeing the parents, and drinking little sweetened remains at the bottoms of tumblers.  There were, every year, families broken up and destroyed, and fine fellows going to the very devil, with this thing; and so we made a movement to form a temperance society.  I paid lecturers, and finally lectured myself.  At last they said to me:  ’It’s all very well for you rich people, that have twice as fine houses and twice as many pleasures as we poor folks, to pick on us for having a little something comfortable to drink in our houses.  If we could afford your fine nice wines, and all that, we wouldn’t drink whiskey.  You must all have your wine on the table; whiskey is the poor man’s wine.’”

“I think,” said Lillie, “they were abominably impertinent to talk so to you.  I should have told them so.”

“Perhaps they thought I was impertinent in talking to them about their private affairs,” said John; “but I will tell you what I said to them.  I said, ’My good fellows, I will clear my house and table of wine, if you will clear yours of rum.’  On this agreement I formed a temperance society; my father and I put our names at the head of the list, and we got every man and boy in Spindlewood.  It was a complete victory; and, since then, there hasn’t been a more temperate, thrifty set of people in these United States.”

“Didn’t your mother object?”

“My mother! no, indeed; I wish you could have known my mother.  It was no small sacrifice to her and father.  Not that they cared a penny for the wine itself; but the poetry and hospitality of the thing, the fine old cheery associations connected with it, were a real sacrifice.  But when we told my mother how it was, she never hesitated a moment.  All our cellar of fine old wines was sent round as presents to hospitals, except a little that we keep for sickness.”