worst means. There
are few families of any note in our city," she added, after a slight
pause, "in which sorrow has not entered through the door of
intemperance. Ah! is not the name of the evil that comes in through
this door Legion? and we throw it wide open and invite both young and
old to enter. We draw them by various allurements. We make the way of
this door broad and smooth and flowery, full of pleasantness and
enticement. We hold out our hands, we smile with encouragement, we step
inside of the door to show them the way."

In her ardor the lady half forgot herself, and stopped suddenly as she
observed that two or three of the company who stood near had been
listening.

Meantime, Blanche Birtwell had managed to get Whitford away from the
table, and was trying to induce him to leave the supper-room. She hung
on his arm and talked to him in a light, gay manner, as though wholly
unconscious of his condition. They had reached the door leading into
the hall, when Whitford stopped, and drawing back, said:

"Oh, there's Fred Lovering, my old college friend. I didn't know he was
in the city." Then he called out, in a voice so loud as to cause many
to turn and look at him, "Fred! Fred! Why, how are you, old boy? This
is an unexpected pleasure."

The young man thus spoken to made his way through the crowd of guests,
who were closely packed together in that part of the room, some going
in and some trying to get out, and grasping the hand of Whitford, shook
it with great cordiality.

"Miss Birtwell," said the latter, introducing Blanche. "But you know
each other, I see."

"Oh yes, we are old friends. Glad to see you looking so well, Miss
Birtwell."

Blanche bowed with cold politeness, drawing a little back as she did
so, and tightening her hold on Whitford's arm.

Lovering fixed his eyes on the young lady with an admiring glance,
gazing into her face so intently that her color heightened. She turned
partly away, an expression of annoyance on her countenance, drawing
more firmly on the arm of her companion as she did so, and taking a
step toward the door. But Whitford was no longer passive to her will.

Any one reading the face of Lovering would have seen a change in its
expression, the evidence of some quickly formed purpose, and he would
have seen also something more than simple admiration of the beautiful
girl leaning on the arm of his friend. His manner toward Whitford
became more hearty.

"My dear old frien