ted. They are apt to draw large conclusions from small
facts. Man is born a free agent, and all men have power, if they will,
to hold their appetites in check. This truth should be strongly
impressed upon every one. Your disease-theory takes away moral
responsibility. It assumes that a man is no more accountable for
getting drunk than for getting the consumption. His diathesis excuses
him as much in one case as in the other. Now, I don't believe a word of
this. I do not class appetites, however inordinate, with physical
diseases over which the will has no control. A man must control his
appetite. Reason and conscience require this, and God gives to every
one the mastery of himself if he will but use his high prerogative."

Mr. Elliott spoke a little loftily, and in a voice that expressed a
settlement of the argument. But one at least of his listeners was
feeling too strongly on the subject to let the argument close.

"What," he asked, "if a young man who did not, because he could not,
know that he had dypso-mania in his blood were enticed to drink often
at parties where wine is freely dispensed? Would he not be taken, so to
speak, unawares? Would he be any more responsible for acts that
quickened into life an over-mastering appetite than the young girl who,
not knowing that she had in her lungs the seeds of a fatal disease,
should expose herself to atmospheric changes that were regarded by her
companions as harmless, but which, to her were fraught with peril?"

"In both cases," replied Mr. Elliott, "the responsibility to care for
the health would come the moment it was found to be in danger."

"The discovery of danger may come, alas! too late for responsible
action. We know that it does in most cases with the consumptive, and
quite as often, I fear, with the dypso-maniac."

As the gentleman was closing the last sentence he observed a change
pass over the face of Mr. Elliott, who was looking across the room.
Following the direction of his eyes, he saw General Abercrombie in the
act of offering his arm to Mrs. Abercrombie. It was evident, from the
expression of his countenance and that of the countenances of all who
were near him that something had gone wrong. The general's face was
angry and excited. His eyes had a fierce restlessness in them, and
glanced from his wife to a gentleman who stood confronting him and then
back to her in a strange and menacing way.

Mrs. Abercrombie's face was deadly pale. She said a few