General attention was thus drawn to the poor fellow, and a great many people came forward and helped him toward reform with their countenance and encouragement.  He did not drink a drop for two months, and meantime was the pet of the good.  Then he fell—­in the gutter; and there was general sorrow and lamentation.  But the noble sisterhood rescued him again.  They cleaned him up, they fed him, they listened to the mournful music of his repentances, they got him his situation again.  An account of this, also, was published, and the town was drowned in happy tears over the re-restoration of the poor beast and struggling victim of the fatal bowl.  A grand temperance revival was got up, and after some rousing speeches had been made the chairman said, impressively:  “We are not about to call for signers; and I think there is a spectacle in store for you which not many in this house will be able to view with dry eyes.”  There was an eloquent pause, and then George Benton, escorted by a red-sashed detachment of the Ladies of the Refuge, stepped forward upon the platform and signed the pledge.  The air was rent with applause, and everybody cried for joy.  Everybody wrung the hand of the new convert when the meeting was over; his salary was enlarged next day; he was the talk of the town, and its hero.  An account of it was published.

George Benton fell, regularly, every three months, but was faithfully rescued and wrought with, every time, and good situations were found for him.  Finally, he was taken around the country lecturing, as a reformed drunkard, and he had great houses and did an immense amount of good.

He was so popular at home, and so trusted—­during his sober intervals —­that he was enabled to use the name of a principal citizen, and get a large sum of money at the bank.  A mighty pressure was brought to bear to save him from the consequences of his forgery, and it was partially successful—­he was “sent up” for only two years.  When, at the end of a year, the tireless efforts of the benevolent were crowned with success, and he emerged from the penitentiary with a pardon in his pocket, the Prisoner’s Friend Society met him at the door with a situation and a comfortable salary, and all the other benevolent people came forward and gave him advice, encouragement and help.  Edward Mills had once applied to the Prisoner’s Friend Society for a situation, when in dire need, but the question, “Have you been a prisoner?” made brief work of his case.

While all these things were going on, Edward Mills had been quietly making head against adversity.  He was still poor, but was in receipt of a steady and sufficient salary, as the respected and trusted cashier of a bank.  George Benton never came near him, and was never heard to inquire about him.  George got to indulging in long absences from the town; there were ill reports about him, but nothing definite.

One winter’s night some masked burglars forced their way into the bank, and found Edward Mills there alone.  They commanded him to reveal the “combination,” so that they could get into the safe.  He refused.  They threatened his life.  He said his employers trusted him, and he could not be traitor to that trust.  He could die, if he must, but while he lived he would be faithful; he would not yield up the “combination.”  The burglars killed him.