his father, "it will never be vacant so long again."

The dinner hour passed on enlivened by social chat and pleasant
reminiscences, and there was nothing to mar the harmony of the occasion.
Mrs. Romaine had been careful to keep everything from the table that
would be apt to awaken the old appetite for liquor, but after dinner Mr.
Romaine invited Charles into the library to smoke. "Here," said he,
handing him a cigar, "is one of the finest brands I have smoked lately,
and by the way here is some rare old wine, more than 25 years old,
which was sent to me yesterday by an old friend and college class mate
of mine.[9] Let me pour you out a glass." Charles suddenly became
agitated, but as his father's back was turned to him, pouring out the
wine, he did not notice the sudden paling of his cheek, and the
hesitation of his manner. And Charles checking back his scruples took
the glass and drained it, to the bottom.

There is a fable, that a certain king once permitted the devil to kiss
his shoulder, and out of those shoulders sprang[10] two serpents that in
the fury of their hunger aimed at his head and tried to get at his
brain. He tried to extricate himself from their terrible power. He tore
at them with his fingers and found that it was his own flesh that he was
lacerating. Dormant but not dead was the appetite for strong drink in
Charles Romaine, and that one glass awakened the serpent coiled up in
his flesh. He went out from his father's house with a newly awakened
appetite clamoring and raging for strong drink. Every saloon he passed
adding intensity to his craving. At last his appetite overmastered him
and he almost rushed into a saloon, and waited impatiently till he was
served. Every nerve seemed to be quivering with excitement,
restlessness; and there was a look of wild despairing anguish on his
face, as he clutched the glass to allay the terrible craving of his
system. He drank till his head was giddy, and his gait was staggering,
and then started for home. He entered the gate and slipped on the ice,
and being too intoxicated to rise or comprehend his situation, he lay
helpless in the dark and cold, until there crept over him that sleep
from which there is no awakening, and when morning had broken in all its
glory, Charles Romaine had drifted out of life, slain by the wine which
at [last] had "bitten like an adder and stung like a serpent." Jeanette
had waited and watched through the small hours of the night, till