“Mrs. Nelson has come over from Sage Butte on a mission,” she said, when she presented them.  “Mr. Hardie, who is the Methodist minister there, is anxious to meet you.”

The lady was short and slight in figure but was marked by a most resolute expression.

“The mission is Mr. Hardie’s,” she said.  “I’m merely his assistant.  I suppose you’re a temperance reformer, Mr. Lansing?”

“No,” George answered meekly; “I can’t say I am.”

“Then you’ll have to become one.  How long is it since you indulged in drink?”

George felt a little embarrassed, but Edgar, seeing Flora’s smile and the twinkle in her father’s eyes, hastily came to his rescue.

“Nearly a month, to my knowledge.  That is, if you don’t object to strong green tea, consumed in large quantities.”

“One should practise moderation in everything. Everything!”

“It has struck me,” said Edgar thoughtfully, “that moderation is now and then desirable in temperance reform.”

Mrs. Nelson fixed her eyes on him with a severe expression.

“Are you a scoffer?”

“No,” said Edgar; “as a matter of fact, I’m open to conviction, especially if you intend to reform the Butte.  In my opinion, it needs it.”

“Well,” responded the lady, “you’re a signature, anyway; and we want as many as we can get.  But we’ll proceed to business.  Will you state our views, Mr. Hardie?”

The man began quietly, and George was favorably impressed by him.  He had a pleasant, sun-burned face, and a well-knit but rather thin figure, which suggested that he was accustomed to physical exertion.  As he could not afford a horse, he made long rounds on foot to visit his scattered congregation, under scorching sun and in the stinging frost.

“There are four churches in Sage Butte, but I sometimes fear that most of the good they do is undone in the pool room and the saloons,” he said.  “Of the latter, one cannot, perhaps, strongly object to the Queen’s.”

“One should always object to a saloon,” Mrs. Nelson corrected him.

Hardie smiled good-humoredly.

“After all, the other’s the more pressing evil.  There’s no doubt about the unfortunate influence of the Sachem.”

“That’s so,” Grant agreed.  “When I first came out from Ontario, there wasn’t a loafer in the town.  When the boys were through with their day’s job, they had a quiet talk and smoke and went to bed; they came here to work.  Now the Sachem bar’s full of slouchers every night, and quite a few of them don’t do anything worth speaking of in the daytime, except make trouble for decent folks.  If the boys try to put the screw on a farmer at harvest or when he has extra wheat to haul, you’ll find they hatched the mischief at Beamish’s saloon.  But I’ve no use for giving those fellows tracts with warning pictures.”

“That,” said Mrs. Nelson, “is by no means what we intend to do.”