“Mr. Ridley had been intemperate before coming to the city, but after settling here he kept himself free from his old bad habits, and was fast regaining the high position he had lost.  I met his wife a number of times.  She was a very superior woman; and the more I saw of her, the more I was drawn to her.  We sent them cards for our party last winter.  Mrs. Ridley was sick and could not come.  Mr. Ridley came, and—­and—­” Mrs. Birtwell lost her voice for a moment, then added:  “You know what I would say.  We put the cup to his lips, we tempted him with wine, and he fell.”

Mrs. Birtwell covered her face with her hands.  A few strong sobs shook her frame.

“He fell,” she added as soon as she could recover herself,” and still lies, prostrate and helpless, in the grasp of a cruel enemy into whose power we betrayed him.”

“But you did it ignorantly,” said Mr. Elliott.

“There was no intention on your part to betray him.  You did not know that your friend was his deadly foe.”

“My friend?” queried Mrs. Birtwell.  She did not take his meaning.

“The wine, I mean.  While to you and me it may be only a pleasant and cheery friend, to one like Mr. Ridley it may be the deadliest of enemies.”

“An enemy to most people, I fear,” returned Mrs. Birtwell, “and the more dangerous because a hidden foe.  In the end it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.”

Her closing sentence cut like a knife, and Mr. Elliott felt the sharp edge.

“He fell,” resumed Mrs. Birtwell, “but the hurt was not with him alone.  His wife died on the next day, and it has been said that the condition in which he came home from our house gave her a shock that killed her.”

Mrs. Birtwell shivered.

“People say a great many things,” returned Mr. Elliott, “and this, I doubt not is greatly exaggerated.  Have you asked Doctor Hillhouse in regard to the facts in the case?  He attended Mrs. Ridley, I think.”

“No.  I’ve been afraid to ask him.”

“It might relieve your mind.”

“Do you think I would feel any better if he said yea instead of nay?  No, Mr. Elliott.  I am afraid to question him.”

“It’s a sad affair,” remarked the clergyman, gloomily, “and I don’t see what is to be done about a it.  When a man falls as low as Mr. Ridley has fallen, the case seems hopeless.”

“Don’t say hopeless, Mr. Elliott.” responded Mrs. Birtwell, her voice still more troubled.  “Until a man is dead he is not wholly lost.  The hand of God is not stayed, and he can save to the uttermost.”

“All who come unto him,” added the clergyman, in a depressed voice that had in it the knell of a human soul.  But these besotted men will not go to him.  I am helpless and in despair of salvation, when I stand face to face with a confirmed drunkard.  All one’s care and thought and effort seem wasted, You lift them up to-day, and they fall to-morrow.  Good resolutions, solemn promises, written pledges, go for nothing.  They seem to have fallen below the sphere in which God’s saving power operates.”