She could not go out and do strong and widely-felt work for humanity, could not lift up the fallen, nor help the weak, nor visit the sick, nor comfort the prisoner, though often her heart yearned to help and strengthen the suffering and the distressed.  But few if any could come into the chamber where most of her days were spent without feeling the sphere of her higher and purer life, and many, influenced thereby, went out to do the good works to which she so longed to put her hands.  So from the narrow bounds of her chamber went daily a power for good, and many who knew her not were helped or comforted or lifted into purer and better lives because of her patient submission to God and reception of his love into her soul.

It is not surprising that one thought took a deep hold upon her.  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.  For a time, and while her distress of mind was so great as almost to endanger reason, she had refused to see Mrs. Birtwell; but as that lady never failed to call at least once a week to ask after her, always sending up her card and waiting for a reply, Mrs. Voss at last yielded, and the friends met again.  Mrs. Birtwell would have thrown her arms about her and clasped her in a passion of tears to her heart, but something stronger than a visible barrier held her off, and she felt that she could never get as near to this beloved friend as of old.  The interview was tender though reserved, neither making any reference to the sad event that was never a moment absent from their thoughts.