"There's one thing I've done," she said one day to Mrs. Bolton, speaking
to her of her brother's drunkenness; "he's never seen me drink a drop of
it since he came home drunk the first time. I hate the very sight of it,
or to hear people talk of the good it's done them! Why, if it did me
worlds of good, and made my poor Richard the miserable wretch he is, I
couldn't touch it. And he knows it; he knows I do it for his sake, and
maybe he'll turn some day. But if he doesn't turn, I couldn't touch what
is ruining him."
"That's very well in your station, Ann," answered Mrs. Bolton, "but it
is quite different with us. We owe a duty to society, which must be
discharged."
"Very likely, ma'am," she replied meekly; "it's my feelings I was
speaking of, not exactly my duty. I hate the name of it; and to think of
the thousands and thousands of folks it ruins! When you've seen anybody
belonging to you ruined by it you'll hate it, I know. But pray God that
may never be!"
"Ann," said Mrs. Bolton, cautiously, "do you suppose any one belonging
to me could ever drink more than is right?"
"It's the town's-talk," answered Ann Holland, bursting into tears;
"everybody knows it.
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