It was one of those prophetic days of early spring when heaven and earth are filled with faint, far promises of the sunshine and verdure of the summer, and when an expectant hush fills all the air, save as now and then a breath of the awakening south wind stirs the faded memories of last autumn’s glories where the dried leaves cluster among the thickets or in the fence corners.

The Thorn carriage occupied by Jean and the coachman, James, was rolling along a stretch of suburban road.

Jean had just left the home of the Crowleys’, and sat in a reverie of sympathy and indignation. Personally she felt that she was absolutely safe from any harm from the traffic in misery and death; but this very fact made her more pitiful and more determined to use what influence and power she could command against it. The carriage slowed up a bit where the road divided.

“Which way, Miss Jean?”

“To the army post, James,” and she continued her brown study, seeming to notice nothing of the landscape until they entered the massive iron gates of the reservation.

Just inside the gates, on either side, heavy cannons were grouped in triangular fashion and surmounted with cones of cannon balls. At regular intervals black sign-boards, bright with gilt lettering, gave notice that just so far and no farther, and just so fast and no faster, the public might travel in this well-arranged institution of the government.

The drive around the inclosure was a long one, and when the Thorn carriage had reached the side farthest removed from the buildings, a sudden jar and crash startled Jean, and suddenly she found herself lying on the roadside.

Fortunately she was not hurt, and after she had brushed the dust from her eyes and pinned a rent in her skirt she found that only a slight break in the carriage had caused the accident. So after tying the horses to a hitching post at some distance, James pushed the carriage to one side, and with the broken part started to a blacksmith shop at no great distance outside the post, Jean agreeing to wait for him, unless he should be gone too long.

After James had disappeared behind the trees, Jean seated herself comfortably on a bench near by, and with her head resting against a majestic oak, gazed upward at the soft spring sky showing through the brown network of the branches. A bird a great way off circled against the floating clouds for a time and disappeared.

At one end of the inclosure the drill ground, checkered and bare, could be seen. Through the trees the red brick walls of the houses in the officers’ quarters showed, while, looking in another direction, she could see a number of stone buildings with porches running their entire length, onto which opened many doors.

A little removed from all these was a common frame building, which, judging by the number of soldiers gathered around it, was the popular resort of the post. This was the canteen.

Jean’s eyes fell with displeasure upon this. It seemed to her like a dark blot upon an otherwise fair picture; like a grave mistake in an otherwise well-ordered institution.

A couple of peafowl trailed their plumage over the dry brown grass across the way from her, and in the slanting rays of the sun they looked like brilliant jewels against the rough and dingy background. But their harsh notes seemed at variance with their beauty, and this, too, made Jean think of the government a government born more beautiful than any other, and reared in its infancy with the care of a child, yet presenting to the world, by its administration, which is a government’s voice, an inconsistency appalling.

Far from broken axles and torn skirts Jean’s thoughts traveled, until she was brought to a sense of her surroundings by footsteps, and looking up she saw that two soldiers had turned the curve that shut off the view of the main road and were coming toward her.

One was a thick-set man of about middle age. He had that untidy appearance that marks a slovenly person, and will appear even in a soldier in spite of all wise and well-directed efforts on the part of a government to keep him neat. His large, light gray, campaign hat was pulled down well over his eyes and a short cob pipe was clinched between his teeth.

The other man was younger and not as heavy. He wore a long coat, open from the neck down, and his cap, set on one side of his head, left his bleared and bloated face in full view.

As they came nearer the younger man staggered fearfully, and Jean knew that he was intoxicated. A feeling, half fear and half loathing, took possession of her as these two ill-visaged privates came nearer; but supposing they would pass, she kept her seat.

“Take-a-hic-your pipe-a-hic-out, in-a-hic-the presence of-a-hic-ladies,” the man in the long cloak said.

The thick-set man took his pipe from his teeth and knocked the ashes out against the palm of his hand.

They were directly in front of Jean now.

The man in the long cloak made a tottering bow and addressed her.

“May a-hic we sit down?”

“Certainly,” said Jean, the blood rushing to her face at their boldness, and she hurriedly started to her feet.

“Keep-a-hic-your seat and-a-hic-don’t get agitated; we’re-a-hic-gentle-mench.”

The thick-set man had already seated himself, and the other man followed his example, forcing Jean to a place by his side.

Judging the thick-set man to be the least intoxicated and more decent, she appealed to him for protection. The lower part only of his face was visible, but she saw that he laughed.

“He don’t mean no harm. Keep still and he’ll go on about his business,” he assured her.

Jean’s face blazed and her heart beat with the force of four.

The tall man emptied his mouth of tobacco juice and other fluids and substances, and the sickening mixture fell so close to Jean’s foot that her boot was spattered. Then he wiped the dribbles on the back of his hand and turned to her.

He bent so close that his hot, foul breath struck her with staggering force and his bloated face almost touched her cheek.

“You’re-a-hic-a little peach,” he said, with a leer, “and-a-hic-I’m-a-hic-a going to k-k-kiss you.”

It was then Jean screamed with all her might, and at the same moment a man sprang to her rescue from a light buggy that had rounded the bend of the drive unobserved.

The thick-set man suddenly disappeared, but the other soldier, either too drunk for rapid movement or too muddled to understand the gravity of the situation, only rose to his feet and stood leering at Jean with disgusting admiration.

The next instant he was felled to the earth and a broad-shouldered man stood over him ready to render a second blow if occasion demanded.

The soldier made an attempt to rise.

“Lie there, you brute,” the man cried, hotly, and the drunken fellow obeyed.

“Nice-a-hic-way to treat a-hic-man that’s protecting-a-hic-the-a-hic-honor-a-hic, the honor of” he muttered.

But the gentleman turned to the woman, and Jean, trembling with fear and indignation, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes, looked a second time into the face of the gentlemanly liquor dealer.

“I am so glad you came!” she gasped, and held out her hand to him.

As they turned to his buggy the gentleman cast a glance back at the prostrate soldier, who had crawled behind a bush to sleep until removed to the guardhouse.

“Such creatures are a disgrace to a civilized government,” he exclaimed, with ill-concealed wrath.

“Our government is a disgrace to itself,” she added. “It creates such creatures by a legal process, and yonder is the factory,” and she pointed in the direction of the canteen.

“Canteen beer canteen beer,” she began again, with warmth, but stopped, for she knew that she was very much excited and that she might not speak wisely.

If she had opened an argument with the gentleman at her side she would have found that he was well posted with the old arguments about the canteen being an institution to keep the soldiers from the greed of evil saloons outside the different posts, but her companion respected her silence, and did not speak until they had passed the great iron gate, when it became necessary.

“Now,” said he, “if you will direct the way, and have no objections, it will give me pleasure to see you safely home.”

“I am Miss Thorn,” said Jean, giving him her address.

“Miss Thorn? Perhaps you are related to Judge Thorn?”

“I am,” replied Jean, smiling.

“That is nice. I have had the pleasure of meeting the judge, and I do not know a man whom I would rather oblige. He is a man all men honor.”

“I am his daughter,” Jean said, proudly, “and I assure you my father will feel under lasting obligations to you for your kindness to me this afternoon, Mr.

“Allison,” the gentleman said.

“Allison?” It was Jean’s turn to look surprised.

“Yes, madam. Allison Gilbert Allison.”

“Not of the firm of Allison, Russell & Joy?”

“The same, madam.”

She looked at him with mingled wonder and regret. The firm name of Allison, Russell & Joy to her mind was a synonym for heartless destruction of happiness and life. The traffic itself was a great evil generality, and as such met condemnation. But in generalities, as in mountain ranges, there are specific points that tower out distinctively for consideration. Such a pinnacle of iniquity this liquor firm had seemed to Jean to be since her acquaintance with the Crowleys.

“You must be mistaken,” she observed at length.

Gilbert Allison had been amused before. Now he laughed. “If I am mistaken, life has been a vast mistake,” he said, “for I have supposed myself to be this same Allison for over thirty years. But why do you think so?”

Jean shook her head sadly.

“I do not understand it at all,” she said, gravely.

“I beg your pardon; but if you will explain to me the trouble, perhaps I may be able to enlighten your understanding.”

“I do not understand how the same person can be so kind and yet so cruel. I do not understand how one person can risk his life to save a life for perhaps you saved mine to-day and yet cause death, and you have been the cause of death.”

Jean spoke slowly and looked grave.

Mr. Allison felt like laughing again, but politely refrained.

“I have been accused of a number of things in my life,” he said, good-naturedly, “but, until to-day, murder has been omitted from the list.”

“There are different modes of procedure but murder is murder after all!”

“Certainly, but I was not aware that I had been connected with a ‘procedure.’”

“Men deal out slow death for gold and trust its clinking rattle to still the groans and cryings that they cause.” Jean spoke reflectively, as if to herself. “In savage countries where there is no Christianity, where all is black, human life is sometimes offered as a sacrifice to gods. Here in Christian America an altar is piled high with mother hearts and manhood and immortal souls.

“This sacrifice goes on unceasingly; the altar fires are never out, and the wail of the little ones and the groans of the crushed that go up from this great altar only cause this god to laugh.

“This god is made of atoms. Every atom is A man.

“All this time the Christian men of this Christian nation stand around in a great circle, weeping and calling on a Christian’s God to hasten the day when this other god shall be ground to dust, meantime mocking their God by legalizing this monstrous thing with their ballots.”

Mr. Allison had probably never heard a young lady talk exactly as this one talked, and yet he enjoyed it, and watched the motion of her hand as she used it to impress her words.

“I am afraid I do not understand you even yet,” he said, when she paused. “Do you refer to the tariff or seal fisheries or female suffrage or war or what?”

“I refer to the rum power in America. That is the god I mean. The most heartless, depraved monopoly on earth, yet men and governments grovel in the dust at its feet and cringe like dogs before its power.”

Mr. Allison was silent, and she continued, presently, turning her face to him.

“It has always seemed to me that the firm of Allison, Russell & Joy was an important part of this great iniquity; partly, I presume, because I happen to be acquainted with a family that has been utterly destroyed by that firm. Tell me truly have they, have you never heard wails and cries and bitter prayers in the stillness of the night? Have you never felt the burden of your awful sin?”

Mr. Allison smiled.

“I am sure,” he said, “I have never heard any weeping or wailing that I have been aware of, and really I hope to be pardoned, but the burden that you speak of has failed to make itself felt.”

“Well, you will hear it some day. Even legal, licensed murder will have its reckoning time. You will see a face some day; you will hear a voice that will haunt you like the wail of a lost soul.”

Mr. Allison shrugged his shoulders as if in apprehension.

“I hope not,” he said; “but Miss Thorn, I am afraid you do not enjoy the society of a liquor dealer.”

“On general principles, no. And yet I have enjoyed yours very much this afternoon, you may be sure. I thank you for it, and I am sorry that you are a ‘man atom’ of the great iniquity.”

“I am sorry that you are sorry,” he answered, and then the Thorn homestead rose in view.

“I never was so frightened in my life,” Jean said, as they drove in front of the gate. “It seems that no one is safe from insult and injury in a land where liquor is a legalized drink. I never thought that I should fall a victim to it.”

“Or be rescued by a liquor dealer.”

“That is true,” and Jean laughed merrily.

Then she thanked him again, and for half a minute he held her small, gloved hand in his, as he assisted her from the buggy.

“It is I who am grateful that Fate allowed me to be the knight.” Then he lifted his hat gallantly, and Jean was gone, but her parting smile stayed with him.