He could not think her silent from embarrassment, for her poise seemed undisturbed except for the anxious look in her eyes. He determined to fathom the cause, and since no finesse availed, there remained but one way,—the direct question.
"What is it?" he said kindly. "Tell me the trouble, and let me help you."
She looked full into his eyes then, and her lips quivered. Something rose in her throat, and she swallowed helplessly. It was so hard for her to speak. The trouble had struck deeper than he dreamed.
"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—"