“It is a trouble, isn’t it? Can’t you tell it to me?”

“Yes. I reckon there isn’t any trouble worse than ours — no, I reckon there is nothing worse.”

“Why, Miss Cassandra!”

“Because it’s sin, and — and ‘the wages of sin is death.’“ Her tone was hopeless, and the sadness of it went to his heart.

“Is it whiskey?” he asked.

“Yes — it’s whiskey ‘stilling and — worse; it’s — ” She turned deathly white. Too sad to weep, she still held control of her voice. “It’s a heap worse — ”

“Don’t