“‘I devoutly wish you had less, Madam,’ was my uncourteous reply; but she scarcely heard me, for Henry, taking the proffered glass, and in a low tone, murmuring, ‘For your sake alone,’ quaffed its contents.  A flush of gratified vanity passed over the lady’s countenance, for she had laid a challenge with some of her friends, who had observed his previous abstinence, that she would make him drink a glass of wine with her, before the evening was over.  That night week I sat, a lonely watcher, by the corpse of Henry Leslie.  He had died in the horrors of delirium tremens, and his last cry had been for brandy.

“Oh, it stings me almost to madness,” exclaimed Arthur, rising and pacing the apartment with hurried steps, “when I reflect that that woman, knowing well his fatal propensity,—­knowing, too, how powerful was her influence over him, for, poor fellow, I believe he would have laid down his life for her sake, was the immediate instrument of leading to destruction one who might,—­had she encouraged him in his resolution to abstain, instead of luring him to depart from it,—­have been an honored ornament to society, not filling, as he does to-day, a drunkard’s grave, ‘unhonored and unsung.’”

There was silence for a few moments in the apartment, for even the volatile Ella seemed affected at the narration.  At length she spoke in a subdued tone.

“That is certainly a melancholy story, Arthur, and I shall not be able to get it out of my mind soon.  But now that I think of it, have you seen Agnes Wiltshire since your return?”

“No; but I have been about to inquire several times where she is, and why have I not seen her before?”

“Simply, because she has abjured society.”

“Abjured society!” and Arthur looked up, with a glance full of astonishment.  “What do you mean, Ella?  Has she become a nun?”

“Not exactly; but she certainly is a Sister of Charity, in the fullest sense of the term.  It was only yesterday morning she passed our windows quite early, followed by a servant carrying a large basket, and I can easily imagine it was on some charitable mission.  You must know, Arthur, for I see by your looks that you are impatient to hear all about her,—­by the bye, it is singular that you should take any interest in her, considering she is a woman,”——­

“Dear Ella, do go on with your story.”

“It is well for you, Mr. Arthur, that I am very good-natured, for I should have an excellent opportunity now of retaliation, for all the unkind things you have been saying about our sex.  But I can be generous, and will forgive you this time,—­so now to our story.  You must know, then, that a great change has taken place in Agnes, ever since the sudden death of poor Lelia Amberton, the particulars of which I wrote to you at the time it occurred.  Agnes grew very low-spirited, and in consequence lost her health, and was ordered by the physician to the country, to recruit her failing strength.  On her return,