That night week I sat, a lonely
watcher, by the corpse of Henry Leslie. He had died in the horrors of
delirium tremens, and his last cry had been for brandy.
"Oh, it stings me almost to madness," exclaimed Arthur, rising and
pacing the apartment with hurried steps, "when I reflect that that
woman, knowing well his fatal propensity,--knowing, too, how powerful
was her influence over him, for, poor fellow, I believe he would have
laid down his life for her sake, was the immediate instrument of leading
to destruction one who might,--had she encouraged him in his resolution
to abstain, instead of luring him to depart from it,--have been an
honored ornament to society, not filling, as he does to-day, a
drunkard's grave, 'unhonored and unsung.'"
There was silence for a few moments in the apartment, for even the
volatile Ella seemed affected at the narration. At length she spoke in a
subdued tone.
"That is certainly a melancholy story, Arthur, and I shall not be able
to get it out of my mind soon.
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