neighbor across the way. So he regarded the
matter. But not so Mrs. Birtwell. As we have seen, a painful sense of
responsibility lay heavily upon her heart.

The winter that followed was a gay one, and many lag entertainments
were given. The Birtwells always had a party, and this party was
generally the event of the season, for Mr. Birtwell liked _eclat_ and
would get it if possible. Time passed, and Mrs. Birtwell, who had sent
regrets to more than half the entertainments to which they received
invitations said nothing.

"When are we going to have our party?" asked Mr. Birtwell of his wife
as they sat alone one evening. He saw her countenance change. After a
few moments she replied in a low but very firm and decided voice:

"Whenever we can have it without wine."

"Then we'll never have it," exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, in considerable
excitement.

"It will be better so," returned his wife, "than again to lay
stumbling-blocks at the feet of our neighbors."

There came a sad undertone in her voice that her husband did not fail
to perceive.

"We don't agree in this thing," said Mr. Birtwell, with some irritation
of manner.

"Then will it not be best to let the party go over until we can agree?
No harm can come of that, and harm might come, as it did last year,
from turning our house into a drinking-saloon."

The sting of these closing words was sharp. It was not the first time
Mr. Birtwell had heard his wife use them, and they never failed to
shock his fine sense of respectability.

"For Heaven's sake, Margaret," he broke out, in a passion he could not
control, "don't say that again! It's an outrage. You'll give mortal
offence if you use such language."

"It is best to call things by their right names," replied Mrs.
Birtwell, in no way disturbed by her husband's weak anger. "As names
signify qualities, we should be very careful how we deceive others by
the use of wrong ones. To call a lion a lamb might betray a blind or
careless person into the jaws of a ferocious monster, or to speak of
the fruit of the deadly nightshade as a cherry might deceive a child
into eating it."

"You are incorrigible," said Mr. Birtwell, his anger subsiding. It
never went very deep, for his nature was shallow.

"No, not incorrigible, but right," returned Mrs. Birtwell.

"Then we are not to have a party this winter?"

"I did not say so. On the contrary, I am ready to entertain our
friends, but the party I give must be one in which