■>%.

v>7-T-

^%.

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

112

2.5

2.2

ll£ 12.0

1.8

1.25

1.4

1.6

^ 6" -

►

■A

Hiotographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

■<>

CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

CIHM/ICIVIH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions

Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques

1980

Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiques

The Institute has attempted to obtain the best
original copy available for filming. Features of this
copy which may be bibliographically unique,
which may alter any of the images in the
reproduction, or which may significantly change
the usual method of filming, are checlted below.

r~7 Coloured covers/

I VI Couverture de couleur

□ Covers damaged/
Couverture endommagde

□ Covers restored and/or laminated/
Couverture restaurde et/ou pelliculde

□ Cover title missing/
Le titre de couverture manque

I I Coloured maps/

Cartes gdographiques en couleur

Coloured inl< (i.e. other than blue or black)/
Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire)

Coloured plates and/or illustrations/
Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur

D
D

Bound with other material/
Reli6 avec d'autres documents

Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion
along interior margin/

La reliure serr^e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la
distortion le long de la marge intdrieure

Blank leaves added during restoration may
appear within the text. Whenever possible, these
have been omitted from filming/
II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajout6es
lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte,
mais, lorsque cela 6tait possible, ces pages n'ont
pas dt6 filmdes.

Additional comments:/
Commentaires suppl6mentaires:

L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire
qu'il lui a 6td possible de se procurer. Les details
de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-6tre uniques du
point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier
une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une
modification dans la methods normale de filmage
sont indiquds ci-dessous.

D
D
D
Q
D

D
D
D
D

Coloured pages/
Pages de couleur

Pages damaged/
Pages endommagdes

Pages restored and/or laminated/
Pages restaur6es et/ou pelliculdes

Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/
Pages ddcolordes, tachet6es cu piqu6es

Pages detached/
Pages d6tach6es

Showthrough/
Transparence

Quality of print varies/
Quality indgale de I'impression

Includes supplementary material/
Comprend du matdriel supplementaire

Only edition available/
Seule Edition disponible

Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata
slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to
ensure the best possible image/
Les pages totalement ou partiellement
obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure,
etc., ont 6t6 filmdes d nouveau de fagon d
obtenir la meilleure image possible.

This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/

Ce document bst film6 au taux de reduction indiqu6 ci-dessous.

10X

14X

18X

22X

26X

30X

^■^■IH

1?X

16X

20X

24X

28X

32X

The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks
to the generosity of:

Library of the Public
Archives of Canada

L'exemplaire film6 fut reproduit grdce d la
g6n6rosit6 de:

La bibliothdque des Archives
publiques du Canada

The images appearing here are the best quality
possible considering the condition and legibility
of the original copy and in keeping with the
filming contract specifications.

Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed
beginning with the front cover and ending on
the last page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All
other original copies are filmed beginning on the
first page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, and ending on the last page with a printed
or illustrated impression.

The last recorded frame on each microfiche
shall contain the symbol — ^> (meaning "CON-
TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"),
whichever applies.

Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at
different reduction ratios. Those too large to be
entirely included in one exposure are filmed
beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to
right and top to bottom, as many frames as
required. The following diagrams illustrate the
method:

Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le
plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et
de la nettet6 de l'exemplaire filmd, et en
conformity avec les conditions du contrat de
filmage.

Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en
papier est imprimis sont film6s en commen^ant
par le premier olat et en terminant soit par la
dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second
plat, salon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires
originaux sont filmds en commen^ant par la
premidre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par
la dernidre page qui comporte une telle
empreinte.

Un des symboles suivants apparaltra sur la
dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le
cas: le symbole — ^signifie "A SUIVRE ", le
symbole V signifie "FIN".

Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre
filmds d des taux de reduction diffdrents.
Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre
reproduit en un seul clich6, il est filmd d partir
de Tangle supdrieur gauche, de gauche d droite,
et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre
d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants
illustrent la mithode.

.*.,/

'" y* X

k-'-- <

THE

'«£>

FAMILY DOCTOE;

OK,

MRS. BARRY AND HER BOURBON..

" thou invisible Spirit of Wine, if thou hast no name to be ffilhd by,
let lis call thee— Devil."

BOSTON :— PUBLISHED BY HENRY HOYT,

No. 9 COBNHILL.

MONTREAL:-JOHN DOUGALL AND SON,

No8. 218 AND 220 St. James Street.

1870

!.:)

PRICE, TWENTT-nVE CENTS.

^ \

'V''.

..J^

.'*' 4

! 91

i .

■^l

THE

FAMILY DOOTOK;

OB,

MRS. BARRY AND HER BOURBON.

«« thou invisible Spirit of Wine, if tliou hast no name to be called by,
let UB call iiiee— Devil."

<i-S>^^3^C$^J^XS_S

BOSTON:— PUBLISHED BY HENRY HOYT,

No 9 CORCHILL.

MONTREAL:-JOHN DOUGALL AND SON,

Nob. 218 and 220 St. James Stkkit.

1870.

j ^ n

6^^^'

Z<P

THE FAMILY DOCTOR.

OHAPTBR I.

TBI OVIB-BDROaNKD HX1.BT.

*<Glve sorrow wards; the grief that does not

Whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids It
br<

}r«ak."

Shakespeare.

" I want my sapper," said Johnny. Mother
laid aside her work, and, from the low window
where she sat, looked anxiously down the
street.

« Don't wait, mother ; I know he isn't com-
ing, and I am so hungry I " pleaded the child.

She rose from her seat without saying a
word. It was one of her hard days, and she
looked so pale and sad, as she went about
getting supper, that it miade my heart ache.

We had finished eating when father came
in. Mother did not raise her eyes ; bat I was
glad to see that he was sober.

" You might have waited for me," he said,
as he took tiie cup of tea she offered. *' You
know I hate to eat my victuals alone."

** We wait a great many nights for you,
and yoa don't come," said my little brother.

I thought Johnny would get a sharp answer
for this ; but father laughed, and said, " Well,
never mind, Johnny; I am coming home to
supper every night now. And, Martha, don't
lock so glum. I have my old place in the
shop again, and I mean to keep it this time."

*' Till you earn enough for another spree,"
said my mother without looking up.

" mother 1 " I said.

" I tell you, I mean to keep it !" he repeated,
without seeming to notice what she said. " I
can have steady work all winter, and Lizzie
shall go to school another quarter, and Johnny
shall have his skates, and we'll have the old
times back again. Hey, wife ? "

" I don't want to hear any such promises, "
said my mother. " You make them one day
and break them the next."

« mother 1 "

" Isn't it true? " she said, sharply. " How
many times has he promised never to touch
liqaor again, and broken iiis promise in a
week ? Lizzie, it's no use saying, < O mother!'
I am tired of keeping still. I have covered
up, and smoothed over, and hid away, till
my heart is ready to break ; and I must talk
it out, or I shall die. ' Old times back
•gain I ' I have been thinking all day, git-

ting here in my misery and rags, with hardly
food enough in the house to keep my children
from starving, of the old times when I was a
happy, light-hearted girl,in the little red farm-
house. You took me from that dear old home,
and you squandered the money my father and
mother worked so hard in their old age to lay
up for their only child. You brought tiie curse
of drunkenness under this roof before we were
six months married. You went down, step
by step, dragging your wife and children with
you ; and you talk about old timet I What
would my mother say to see me to-day?
Mother 1 mother 1 1 am glad you are dead."
She covered her face with her apron.

" Will you hold your tongue V said father,
angrily. *' How dare you talk so before the
children?"

X And why not before the children ?" she
said with great bitterness, " Don't they know
it all? What have they seen under this
roof but poverty, and misery, and sin? I
would rather that boy " — pointing to Johnny,
who, with round eyes, looked from one to the
other of his parents—" lay in his coffin to-
night,than see him live to grow up to be a
man, if he must be what hisfallxer is."

be snatched his hat from the table with a
fierce oath, and slammed the door as he went
out.

" Now, mother,'* said Johnny, " he's gone
to ' The Corners' again, and when he comes
home—"

" Hush, Johnny," I said ; and, waking little
Annie from her sound sleep in the cradle, I
hurried the children up stairs, but all tiie
time I was undressing and putting them to
bed, and long afterwards, when the supper
things were put away, and we sat down with
our one candle on the little table between us,
to finish the shirts that must be taken home
to-morrow, I was wondering what had come
over mother. For never, in all my life, had I
heard her talk as she talked to father that
night. In thinking it over then, I was glad
to remember, and, after what followed so
joon, I am glad to remember now, that I
never heard her speak bitterly and reproach-
fully to him before. Silent and sad she was,
a woman of a sorrowful spirit always, through
those miserable years, but patient and forbear-
ing, and untiring in her care for his comfort.
I speak of this because, though I must tell
my sad story, I wish to do my mother jus-
tice. Even at the worst, when drink made

TnS FAMILY DOCTOlt.

him furicuR, and he fiUud onr poor home
with trerror and violnnco, her patience never
failed ; and in the illnesBes he brought upon
himself, she nuraed him as carefully and
tenderly as if he had been the best of hua-
bandg. I used to wonder sometimeg— for I
was of the age when girls have their fancies
about 8uch thinga -if she loved biui as happy
wivea love their huabanda ; if, seeing him so
changed and degraded, she could keep in her
heart any of the fueling of her wedding day.
Does 8t. Paul's command, "Wives, reverence
your hosbanda," apply to drunkards' wivea 7

But I mast not forget that I am speaking of
Uiy fkther. Certainly, until that dreadful
night, my dear mother never forgot, dis-
appointed and heart-broken as she was, to
render him all the outward respect due to the
father of her children. Poor mother 1 I look-
ed at her, as she bent over her work, her eyes
red with crying, and longed to comfort her.
I think she kept her troubles too much to her-
self. The neighbors called her hard and
proud, because in our greatest distress she
never asked for pity or aid. But, strong and
self-reliant as her nature was, I knew there
were times when her heart ached for human
sympathy. Alas I she felt the i!ieed of no
higher aid. In all her trouble, she had never
learned to go and tell Jesus. When a few
months before, on that bright Sabbath after-
noon which I shall never forget, I camo to her
with my new-found hope, she kissed me,
and said ahe was glad ; if religion could make
me happy, I did well to get it ; for I needed
comfort enough. But when I ventured to say,
'*And you too, mother," she repulsed me so
sternly that I had never dared to speak to her
on the subject again. But, looking at her
to-night, and seeing how trouble waa making
hollows in lier cheek, and streaking her black
hair with gray, I prayed earnestly that God
would comfort her as only He can comfort.

And then I began to think of the future I
0, if father would but keep his promise, and
send me to the Academy through the winter,
I felt sure that, with hard study, I should be
ready to teach in the spring, and so be a help
instead of • burden, to the family. And the
hours passed, and it was nearly midnight be-
fore our work was finished. But tired as I
wag, I stood a few moments at the open win-
dow of my little room up stairs. It waa a
still, moonlight night. I could hear the rip-
ple of the stream that crossed the road a few
rods from our door, and see in the water the
shadow of the willow-tree just at the end uf
the bridge. Father was so often away till
near morning that his absence did not dis-
turb me ; but before I fell asleep, I heard the
front door open, and knew that mother was
looking out into the night, and listening for
his step.

It seemed to me I had slept but a few mi-
DUtes, when a dreadful cry broke the stillness.
1 sprang to my feet. It was broad day. As

T hurried on my clothes I heard a cohfused
sound of voices below ; but the cry did not
come again. Surely it was mother's voice I
heard ; and now all was still. Had he mur-
dered her? Fear gave me strength, and I
was down stairs in an instant. My first glance
showed me two or three neighbors standing
near the open door, and my mother kneeling
beside something in the middle of the room.
My next glance told me what that something
was. father, had it come to this 7 He was
quite dead. They found him lying at the
bottom of the atream that ran almost past his
door. Had he called out, we mnat have heard
him. Had he made one effort to save him-
self, he must have succeeded, for the stream
ran but four feet deep in its channel. One of
our neighbors, driving his team across the
bridge in the early morning, saw, through the
clear water, the body of a man lying under
the willow-tree, whose shadow I watched tho
nfght before He want back for help, and
they did what they could ; but it was too late,
the doctor said, by several hours The
farmer's empty cart stood by the roadside, and
so they brought him home. Home ? It
was home last night. He was here among ua,
eating,talking, aharing our common wanta So
close to ua then, so far away now t
- Since the first outburst of grief, my mother
had not spoken ; but when I knelt beside her
and put my arms about her nock, she whisper-
ed, "0 Lizzie, I waa unkind to him last
night," and broke forth into dreadful crying.
Poor mother t After all these years of silent
endurance, why must she falter at the last, and
make this hour of bereavement bitter with the
anguish of self-reproach 7 0, to bring him
back for one hour ; to rectll the cmel words ;
to throw herself at his feety and beg to be for-
given! Too late I Neither to-day, nor to-
morrow, nor next ye»r. He has gone too far
away for her ever to find him again.

OHAPTEB II.

aiVlira AWAT TBI BABT.

" Orlef fills the room up of my absent otaild,
liiea In his bed, walks op and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats bis words,
Bemembera me of all blsgraoious parts,
Htnfib out bis vacant garments with bis form ;
Then have 1 reason to be fond of grief."

ahakespwxre.

The day after the funeral we resumed the
routine of our every-day life. Our low room
bore its accustomed look, for the aeats borrow-
ed from a neighbor for the occasif)n were re-
turned, and only a certain stillness and chill
remained to tell us how lately Death had fill-
ed it with his presence. I think the children
felt this ; for they played out of doors all th«

•

QIVINO AWA7 TUX BABT.

•

Biorning, though it waa cold. Mothur and I
■at wiwiDg in our usual placeu, and my young-
eat brother, or " Baby Willie," aa we alwaya
called him, a beautiful child, fourteen montba
old, was playing about the floor, when Johiu.^.y
ran in, bia black eyea open to ttieir wideat
extent.

"Mother, tho Clair carriage baa atopped
right before our house, and a beautiful lady
la getting out. I guesa abe'a coming in ; "
and aa he apolce there was a knock at the
door.

The Olaira were wealthy people, living in
the neighborhood, whose carriage often awept
paat our humble abode, but had never atopped
there before.

What brought it to-day ? My heart sank
aa I gueased the lady's errand. Poor as we
were, one poaaeaaion of ours that rich woman
coveted.

One morning in the aummer, aa I was draw-
ing Baby Willie in hia carriage, Mrs Clair
stopped me at her gate. Bhe aeemed greatly
taken with the child ; inquired his name and
age, and lifting him from the carriage, hekl
him in her arms. He was a fearless little fel-
low, and he laughed and frolicked, and hid his
curly head in her bosom. 8he held him close
to her heart, kissed him a great many times,
and, when at last he grew restless in her em-
brace, she leluctantly gave him back to me ;
but there were tears in her eyes, and a hun-
gry, longing look on her face. She lived in a
great, splendid house on the hill ; but she was
childless, and the moment she entered our
poor room I knew she came t6 beg away our
baby.

And I was right. After a few common-
place expressions of sympathy, she coaxed
Willie to come to her. He was pleaaed with
the glitter of her ornamenta and the rustle of
iier silk dress, and lifted his blue eyes to her
face in baby wonderment. She stroked his
curia with her jeweled hand, and turning to
my mother, said : —

" Mrs Barton, will you give this child to
me?"

My mother looked at her in amazement.

" Give my baby to you ? " she said.

*' Yea. 1 have been thinlcing, ever since I
beard of your affliction, what you can do, left
aa you are with ao many little moutha to
feed. I shall be glad to help you, by relieving
you of the burden of this child."

" I never looked upon my children as bur-
dens," said my mother, her lip beginning to
quiver.

" O, no, of course not," she replied. " Tou
quite misunderstand me. I have no doubt
you find it a pleasure to do for them to the
extent of yaur ability ; but^you will par-
don me, Mrs. Barton, if I speak plainly — you
are left, if I am rightly informed, in quite a
destitute condition, wiUx three children, all of
them of a tender age, dependent upon yon ;
that is with the little help this yoong girl can

give you. You found it hard enough to live
before : how do you expect to support yourself
and all this family alone f Now, let me tell
you what I am willing to do. Give me this
boy, the moat helpless and dependent of all,
and from this hour he shall be to me as my
own child. He shall ahare every comfort and
luxury our bouse aUorus. Hu shall have the
beat advautagea for his education, and, if he
lives to be of age, we will start him in any
business or profession he may chooae. I have
my huaband'a word for thia, and at our death
he shall be well provided for. Indeed, I may
nay that we will make him our principal heir
for we have no B«ar relatives living, and he
shall be to OS in every respect as our own
child. What mere can you ask for the boy 7''

All the time Hhe was speaking, her hands
softly touched the golden curia, and his baby
eyea were fastened on her face.

My mother made no reply, and it waaimpo.
sible to read the expreasion of her face.

'* Surely " said the lady, a little impatiently,
after waiting a moment &>rareply, "if yea
love the boy, you cannot heaitate an inatant.
I sboold think it need not take you long to
choose between the life I offer him and—"
her keen eye swept our bare room with a look
it needed no words to interpret.

Just here Baby Willie slid from hia place ou
her lap, and went toddling across the room to
his mother. She caught him ia her arms,
hid her face in his nedc, and sobbed out, "
WUliel Willie I"

" Don't decide now, mother " I said. " Mrs
Olair, give her time to think about it."

" Certainly," she said " if you wish it. Shall
I call in the morning f And, Lizzie, — I think
they said your name was Lizzie,— you appear
like a good, practical, common-sense girl.
Don't let any foolish sensibility interfere with
your brother's prospects. lam sure I may
trust you to give your influence towards m
right decision."

She turned to my baby brother, as though
she would have taken hiD>. in her arma again ;
but my mother held him fast. Then she trail-
ed her silk dress through the doorway, and
we heard her carriage drive away.

Mother went immtdiately to her room, tak-
ing Willie with her, and I was left to think
over Mrs. Clair'a proposal alone. With a
heavy heart I acknowledged the truth of all
she said I knew she was abundantly able to
do what she promised, and that, as her adopt-
ed son, my brother would receive every advan-
tage that money and position could give him.
\^^t had we to offer in comparison to thia ?
I thought of our poverty and humble station ;
the atruggle we must make to live ; the years
of hardship and toil before us ; and I felt the
full force of the lady's appeal. But how could
we give up Willie ?

We said little about it I felt it was a ques-
tion my mother must decide alone ; and I
needed only to look in her fiwe to know the

TBI VAMILT DOOTOS.

■mi

■tniggle within, and how it wni likely to end.
When sb* sent me early next morning to her
bureau drawer, to bring Qabj Willie's only
white frock, I knew our darling was to be
given away. She washed and dressed him
herself, lingering over each detail, twining the
■oft curls round her fingers again and again,
and kissing the dimpled shoulders as she tied
the blue ribbons.

When the carriage drove to the door, she
gave him to me without a word. I did not
wait for Mrs Clair to alight, but ran down m
her to the gate, Willie laughing and crowing
in my arms.

She was in high good himor ; and, after
wrapping the child In a rich embroidered man-
tle brought for the purpose, she leaned over
the side of the carriage and spoke very gra<
ciously to me.

" I heard of a situation for yon, Liszie," she
said. '* My friend Mrs. Barry, who is an in-
valid, wants a girl to wait on her, and do plain
sewing. I have described you to her, and she
thinks you will suit her. It is an easy place
with good wages, and you will be near your
mother. If you wish the situation, yon must
apply to-day."

I thanked her, and she drove off.

" Why not ? " I asked myself, as I walked
back to the house. My plan of teaching must
be given up— that was certain. It was equally
certain that I must do something towards the
support of the family. Why not this T " Good
pay, and near my mother." Before I reached
ihe house, I made up my mind to apply for
the situation, if my mother gave her consent.
1 his was not difficult to obtiSn ; so complete-
ly absorbed was she in her grief at the loss of
her baby that she scarcely heeded me, and
when at length she undei^tood, only said,
" Yes, child ; go, if you wish. There's nothing
but death and sepnration now."

In half an hour I was on my way to Mrs.
Barry's.

The uncomfortable shyness I felt as I climb-
ed the broad stone steps leading to the mansion
wore off directly in the presence of Mrs. Barry.
She was so perfectly quiet and ladylike in
her manner as at once to put me at my ease ;
and as I could answer her few questions satis-
factorily, our business was soon concluded,
and I left the house with a light heart.

Half way down the hill Frank Stanley over-
took me. " Why, Lizzie, what a dfaase you
have given me 1" he said, coming up quite out
of breath. " What in the world are you doing
up here T I saw some one come out of Mr.
Barry's gate that looked so much like you that
I hurried to catch up ; and a pretty chase you
have given me. But I can't imagine what you
could go there for."

'To apply for a situation Frank. I am
going there to live next Monday."

' ' Apply for a situation,' Lizzie I " he re-
peated. •• What kind of a situation T "

" To sew, and take care of If n. Barry. Bhfl
is not well, you know."

" Lizzie, I thought you were to teach."

" So I did ; but that is out of the question,
DOW, you know, and I must do something to
help mother."

" Seems to me this is very sudden," said
Frank, in a discontented tone. '< What do
you want to go there for ? They are proud,
snobbish people ; at least he is — wonderfully
set up, because he has made money. I don't
believe they will be good to you, Lizzie.
They will look down on you, and treat you
like a common servant."

" Well, that is just what I shall be," I said,
laughing. " What makes you think they are
proud ? Mrs. Barry did not seem in the least
like it, only very quiet and ladylike ; and she
has one of the sweetest faces I ever saw. I am
sure I shall love her. And, Frank, if you
could see her beautiful room, with its birds,
and flowers, and pictures, where I am to sit
most of the time, you would be glad, I know,
that I am to have such a pleasant home.
Think how much nicer it will be than to work
all day in adiriy factory."

« I don't want you in either place," he said.
" I hate rich peoole. Now, there's Phil Barry.
He comes into the store with his fancy coat
and diamond studs, and gives himself the most
disagreeable airs, and treats us clerks as
though we weren't good enough to spenk to.
The ^ellow don't know anything — he is al-
most a fool ; but because bis fkther is rich,' he
feels mighty grand. And I suppose the rest
are just like him. Liisie, I think you might
have talked it over with me before you de-
cided."

Because Frank and I had known each other
all our lives, and walked, and studied, and
played together ever since we were little
children, he seemed to think he had a right
to be consulted in all my plans.

'* 7ou know I couldn't wait, Frank," I said.
" I must decide at once, or lose the chance.
And really it is the best thing I can do. And
I wonder why it isn't just as respectable for
me to take care of that gentle, pretty latly,
and use my needle, as it is for you to stand
behind the counter all day, waiting on Tom
Dick, and Harry, or carry big bundles all over
town, as you are doing to-day. Gome, Fran k,
don't be cross ; and pray don't walk any
farther with me. It really is not respect-
able for you to bfl seen walking with a ' com-
mon tervant.'"

Frank laughed then, and made a silly
speech, which it is not worth while to repeat.

It was sad to go home and find no Willie
there. The house seemed strangely hushed
and vacant. "Is Willie dead too, mother?"
said Johnny, when she snatched a little worn
shoe from the floor, and, kissing it passion-
ately, hid it in her bosom. When night
came I could not bear to look at his empty
cradle.

THB DOCTOR AND BIS MIDICINI.

Just at twilight, going to mother's room,
I found h«r tying lier bonnet.

" Where are you going, mother ? "

" I am going for my baby," tbe said, almoat
fiflrcelT.

" Why, mother I " I apoke with aiitoniBh-
ment, for it was very onlike her to change her
mind so saddenly.

" Lizzie. I can't help it. Perhaps it U
selflnh hnd wicked ; but I mnit bare my baby.
If Uud bad taken liim from me, I would try to
submit. I know I should not moarn for him
80 much if he was dead. He has seemed dead,
and worse than dead, to me all day. He is
mine, and I will have him back"

1 knew her too well to utter a word of re-
monstrance. She was like "a bear robbed of
her whelpB."

"I will go with you," I said, and in a few
minutes we were on our way.

She walked so fast, that I found it impossi-
ble, young and strong as I was, to keep pace
with her ; but before we reached the house she
waitt'd for me to come up.

" There ; listen," she said. «< Don't yon
hear him crying 7 That sound has been in my
ears all day. Poor baby I H« wants ma a«
much as I want him. Willie ! Willie I"

With the utmost attention I could not, at
that distance, distinguish a sound ; but as we
came nearer I heard a child screaming, and
very soon knew it to be Willie's voice. We
followed the direction of the sound, going
round to the side door. Mother knocked once,
and, without waiting an instant, opened the
door and entered. The carpet was strewn
with playthings. A girl sat in a low rocking-
chair, with Willie kicking and struggling in
her arms, and Mrs. Clair, on her knees before
him, vainly endeavoring to pacify the scream-
ing child.

Without a word, mother took him from the
arms of hts astonished nurse. He stopped
crying, looked at her, his blue eyes swimming
in t«-ar8 ; then one arm crept round her neck,
and the little weary head sank on her shoulder
in perfect content. She held him close to her
heart, lavishing upon him every tender epithet
in a mother's language.

"What does this mean ?" said Mrs. Glair,
rising quickly to her feet. " Tou have given
the child to me.''

" Mrs. Clair, I want my baby," said my
mother. " Indeed I cannot give him up. Ood
would have given him to yon, if He Lad meant
you should have him. He gave you your
splendid house, and your carriage, and your
fine clothes ; but He gave me my children,
and I cannot part with them tiU He takes
them from me."

" Are you craay V said Mra. Clair.

« I was craay when I parted with my child,"
said my mother.

" 0, very well," said the lady, bitterly ;
" take tbe boy back to your miserable home ;
and, if he lives to be a nan. he will curse his

mother for her selfishness. And dont come
to me for help. I have done with you. Oo
back, and all starve together."

"We shall not starve," said my mother,
with great spirit. « I have a willing heart
and a strong right arm. I can work for my
children ; I can die for them, if need be ; but
I will not part with them till Ood bids me.
And. please Ood, I shall live to see this Iwby
hand my stofand my stay. Come, Lizsie."
She wrapped her shawl about the sleeping
boy, and we left the house.

CHAP. in.

TBI OOOTOB A*rD D8 MIDIOIiriL

"A man In all tbe world's new faahlon planted.
That liath a mint of phnuMs I n his brain ;
Une whom the muslo of his own tongue
Doth ravish like enchanting harmony."

Shakupeare.

My mother's determined spirit was roused.
She spoke truly when she told Mrs, Glair thnt
she bad a willing heart and a strong rightarm.
And she needed them both. There were years
of toil and privation before her ; for, with three
little hungry mouths to feed, she was left very
poor. But she looked at everything from a
hopeful point of view.

" We shall have no reot to pay, Lizzie,"
she said. ** The house, poor as it is, is my own ;
dear father looked out for that. "Then we can
live very snug. And you know how quick I
am with my needle ; and I can get plenty of
work, and with what you can spare from your
wages, we shall do nicely. It is a great
comfort to me to think that you will have a
pleasant, comfortable home."

" Mother," I said, " do you know much
about the farrya? Frank says they are very
proud people."

" Quite likely, my dear. Mrs. Barry belongs
to a wealthy, aristocmtie family. I know it
was thought she married beneath her, because
Mr. Barry's father was a mechciuic. But it
was a love match. He was a fine-looking
yoimg man, and she was called the belle of
Hartford County, She was very beautiful
when she wai a girl."

" Mother, she is a beautiful woman now.
I don't believe she conlu x. /er have been more
so. She has the loveliest face I ever saw "

I spoke with girlish eothusiasm ; but, look-
ing back through many years, I see no reason
to change my opinion, or to doubt the justice
of the meed of praise I so freely bestowed up-
on her. I can see her now as she looked that
bright Monday morning when I commenced
my pleasant duties under her husband's roof.
She was full forty years old, but her complex-
ion was aa delicate and tmnsparent as a child's ;
iboyo the medium height| bat so perfectly

I'lJ

■i

ttri rxifiur Dcfof Oft.

wan propwdontd, fead MgiMaftal in evwy
mofraMottt, ttM no one thonght «rf calling kor
tell. A qoutitj ofildh kNiwn hair, anhngcd in
■hlnfaig U*id% formed « HMng ooronel for
heraaeonlyhtfod. HoreydtwonliBri^MMioin
liqnul InrOlim ; And sbe kttd this wr e Oi M t mpitth
loTOTHiw. IAW loxariMrt^ llnrnfalMdiOonL
wmpMd'in flk^ ^foUb d'JMrMni^ nkom^
lag>4ra^ li* iwdf ^blle iMrdi gpktkAag
with genu, irith all her iMOVtmi ittntoioMt
ingiiihelooUed toine, ftoihfhNn'tttfpottorlg^.
■triotea home, like a Mkotik (n afurjr tale.
On the hearUi'mg, in nont of the biasing fire,
■at a 1)07, *^^^ ot nine yean old, bully
whittling. He looked np'flrom liii work as I
entered the room, and I saw that, with hii
mother*! broad, qpen iaajfmA, and dear
brown ejei, he was yet nndeniaUy homely.
His hair waa a« rough M a Uonfi pane, his
skiiQ freckled, and Us mouth large : and, when
he /^itn to his mattnr for some aarkw aWot
the miniatotp boat 1^ wa^ odtts*iictto|^ fib

great red ka9fi)iP^ <AMiwM vmm. «i^
her little ddioate hand. He seemed very
frank and confiding, an^ before I was half an
how in the honae, dm^ «> ite to heJAi the Mis
for his iUa. Bo ir^ ii^re gdlMfMdbidsdireot-
ly. His biothtt Philip foMit <>ti iUb Mi^
when I went to dty dicier. He tton^ toiel
me pa/is, and ttaired at me witt a ^.<^ b<a^

M 6J^, mL I waf i^laif to dfOp my

own.

Mr. 9arry waa oat of town, fnd. the ftnt
two or three w^^ of my stay ui^^ Ms roof,
I saw little of U^ ; for his 1ii&in«^, of Which
he only carried o^ a 1)iiu|^h in the qitief
country Tillage where life tesided, kept him
much of the tinie in'the ni^Lmtkiri^ ciy. ^ He
was a tall, einotman ;1iiB flo^dfitoetuwrlnk-
led, ai^ with not'# gr^y hi^ to hutrk 1^ fifty
winters ; a' little 'yom^p In m^nnei', but look-
ing and appearing Jugt fhfi he wi|^-the pr|M-
perouB mero&anv

One morning, when I had been wit^ his
wife two or thrve weejk;f^ 1^ ^PJPed, D$,%iii
hand, at t^e door of h^ iw^

"OfaMra,''heaaid, "lbri*«T^I^«WRiJ»to
Dr. ^harpe^i office, and aM^ him V> o0 tpv^
to-day. tttli^ky«^uha|ret^^i«l9ld,^?^8^rtpn
long enough ', and thi^ an tl^i new ^Botf^ i^
TeryskUfoV Xo^r«|jf|pdhe,l«R>J^npiiOr
tice in the dty, and came an m|% iTOwe he
wooldaotheobHKedtoworl^^Mbii^ Islninla
like to see if he oa^ help yoim"

<• Tery well," said the Iwiy, langwidhr,
'* Do M yov plo iaw akont it ; hot I haT# noiOM
he CM) do anything liDr ma. i feel oiomidet«]y
disooiwafsd."

•«Nanseosel Tou wtUbe aU rifl^ agiUn.
Now.dont worry. TsUhimaUyonK^rmptaus,
and Jnsthow yon heL He has had itrert «>•
perlenca, and, I haTO no doubt, will naderstand
your oaaa at onoe."

"Llaile^dont go away when he osmss,*
•Bid Mn. lK«jr: **'Sikb yvar work aadi^

M. no thonghl of aedng a now doo-
tor makes me nervou.*

I aooordiiijriy settlad myself comfortably by
the window, Mt almost Immediately was call-
ed away by an nigent request for my help in
tl^is dhibigHiiMm, mm tatle, the second girl,
iHio was oiaabled by a lama hand.

Before I finished Sam ran ia saying, "The
doctor has ciime, Linle, and mother wants
yon im-atefank"'

"•I have very Uttle itNnoth, doctor," Mrs.
Ittry Was iaylng whan I entered the room ;
Mthe leaal ezermon weairies me^ and my sleep
dees me no good. I feel as tired in tlie
motaiyt as at night.''

D^. Snaipe ran'^hls tngen fhroi«h his still
gm^ hair, making it stand ovt fhmi his head
in all directions. He was a little man, yery
ImilnedraMl ^w^ pompons.

" The symptoma yon describe, my dear ma-
dam," ha r^>ttEd, '< are produced, no doobt^ by
iftMMnApiQStmtloii of the nerr^os system.
Tie aorvons i^atem." said Dr. 8harpe, raising
his Toice, and looking all round, as though
addceMng qtdto' an assembly, ** that wonder,
ftd coUeotion of medollaiy obtda, originating
feam the brain and spina marrow, and distri-
buted upon theorgtos of sense, the Tiacera,
Vassals, musidee, and evwy partof this organ-
ism of 'odrs, that is endowed with tensibiHty,
haa its «wtt great law, and is gc^emed there,
by. Wa will cidi li a Ikw d expenditure and
supply. Among the d^icatethsnes of which
Ms pari of the body is composed, there is a
constant waste going on, whtte fresh nerroni
force is supplied day bf day to batence t •
ezpenditare. In a perlbctly healthy, unfluo.
toating state of rltal action, the siip^y gnat.
ly ezoeeda the expenditure ; while in a less
tevomble oondition at the system we shall
find the expenditure exceeding the supply.
Noiw,what is to be doner Food being the
natural element«i^

But I haye no appetite, doctor.**

<* Precisely, madam, because there is an ab.
normal state of the f^steaB, and every part of
the sensitfTe organism snirera. The delicate
lining of the mucous memlnratte <^tiie stomach
becomes irriteted, the gastric Juices vitiated,
consequent anorexia, or loss of appetite,
follaws. The livers What is the liver r
said Dr. Shrrpe, turning round suddMily, and
^iariig fimoely M me through his spectacles.

I'was so overwhelmed at the magnitude
and extent ol the qneaUon, that to my trepi-
datton I cpaet my work-basket, tud waa too
busy colleottag mj acattered utensils to ro-
ply.

The liiver,» he resumed, keeping his eye
sternly on me, " is an oigau whose fonctione
are closely connected wito the very citadel of
W. Loik at the position It occupies, undor
the dtophngm, in the right hypoohondrimu,
ita smulei poirtian occupying part of the
epigastrto nsgion. What does H do T U
takeanpany naw matter wfaiob can. ha made

!•- I

THl DOOTOE AND HIS MIDIOIMB.

blood. It takes up any matter which can be
lued over again. It is the great economizer.
It excretes the bile, a fluid of the utmost im-
portance in chylification. If the liver is dis-
ordered, the whole system suffera Nutrition
is impaired. The vital force is diminished.
Phlegmon or morbid heat is engendered,and the
integrity of the entire organism destroyed."

He looked round when he bad fini^ed, as
much as to say, " Would anybody like any far-
ther information about the liver T" and as no-
body did, he settled himself on his chair, gave
bu head a great rub, and looked fiercer than
ever.

" Do you think I have a liver complaint,
doctor t" said Mrs. Barry, timidly.

'*T9U have a slight functional derange-
ment, my dear madam, accompanied by an
inertia and torpidity of that important part of
the vascular system which we shall find it
desirable to arrest in time."

"Then these headaches, doctor, are very
distressing. And I am dreadfully nervous.
The shutting of a door makes me jump, and
any sudden fright puts me in a profuse per-
spiration. And I have lost all confidence in
myself ; everything looks mountainous to me.
I have no control over my feelings, but shed
tears at the least little thing ; and I have lost
all interest in society, and only desire my
friends to leave me here to mope. And half
the time I am so dull and drowsy that I iall
asleep in my chair."

" Mrs. Barry, you have described with great
accuracy the effect of diseased action upon
the nerves and brain. From the great ner-
vous centres," said Dr. Sharpe,again addressing
a large audience, "the lesser nerves radiate,
as the lesser planets round the sun. And
over all parts of the body extends this won-
derful net-work. We have the dorsal nerres,
the lumbar nerves, the cerebral nerves —
Where," aaid the doctor, reflectively,—" where
don't they go ? And the lesser nerves acting
from, and reacting upon, these great nervous
centres, what follows ? A slight disturbance
here, and every nerve responds and sympathi-
les. We find, in place of calm, uniform ac-
tion, an unnatural susceptibility, and a pre-
disposition to spasmodic excitement. The
excretories of the skin emit their fluids freely,
the lachrymal gland pours forth its secretions ;
in short, there is abnormal action and excite-
ment. The effect upon the cerebro-psychical
organs enclosed in the vi8cus,or, in unprofes-
sional language, the brain, is equally obvious.
Here we find headache, accompanied by de-
pression, taciturnity, and lethargy."

"And the palpitation of the heart, doc-
tor—"

" Merely sympathetic, my dear madam; do-
l>tind upon it. So important a primary organ
situated in the thorax, where the arteries rise
and the veins terminate, must participate in
any disturbance of the system. The heart—''
He looked my way again, and I lelt so suio ho

would call upon me for some information re-
specting that organ, that I made a hasty errand
ttom the room. When I returned he had just
finished a long speech, and was shampooing
his head again.

"0 doctor, you frighten me," said Mrs.
Bany.

" My dear madam, allow me at once to re-
assure you. I detect in my diagnosis of your
disease a train of symptoms not alarming in
themselves, but suggestive of constitutional
weakness and a want of vital power. There
is,a8l remarked,someftuu;tional derangement
which it will be prudent to arrest, a somewhat
morbid condition of the nervous centres, a
torpid state of the liver, a slight, a very
slight, sympathetic affection of the heart.
Now, let us restore the nervous system to a
healthy tone, clear the gland and biliary duct
of the excretory accumulation, and all miaor
symptoms will, I am confident, disappearand
leave our patient in the enjoyment of comfort-
able health.''

" Do you really think so, doctor f Yon in-
spire me with hope."

Here Bridget's red ftice appeared at the
door. " It's the pain-killer stuff I'm wantin',
Mis' Barry, to stop that bj's howlin' ; an' it's
little gravy ye'll be gittin' wid yer dinner, and
ivry drap on me clane fiure, an' the rist on
Master Sam's ligs, bud luck to him I"

*' Lizzie, do go and see what the matter is,"
said Mrs. Bany ; " that boy is always in mis-
chief. You will find the pain-killer on the
second shelf in the medicine closet."

When I reached the scene of the disaster, I
found a small lake of gravy on the floor, the
sauce-pan upside down in the middle, and Sam
dancing round it, ' howlin,' as Bridget ex-
pressed it, with the pain.

" Will ye kape out o' me way thin nixt
time T" said the indignant damsel ; "ye got ye're
desarts for rinnin' full tilt agin' a bo^ wid a
bilin' sass-pan, an' the praties a bilin' to rags,
and the turkey afther a bustin', and all this
grase to be claned up, and the table to be sot
for dinner, and that Katie wid a filin on her
finger, an' niver a sowl to take a stip but me-
self."

" Keep out of the way I" roared the in-
jured innocent, still continuing his evolutions,
" Just hear that — will you ? How's a fellow
to keep out of her way, when she runs down
on him like a man-o'-war under full sail, and
empties a quart of sizsling hot gravy all over
his shins? Ough! Ought"

I bound up the scalded limbs, helped restore
order and cleanliness to Bridget's domain, and
promising to set the table for her by and by,
ran back to my mistress.

I found Dr. Sharpe seated at the table with
some square bits of paper before him, upon
which he carefully distributed little powders
from two little bottles at his side. He waa
talking busily. *' Lqt us suppose that we hava
reachud the seat of .he dlieoie, and by active

THE FAUILT DOCTOE.

renXHilies bave removed the primary cause, and
rorrected the morbid condition of tlie glands
and tissues. Is tliis all ? By no means. We
find, especially in the exquisitely sensitive or-
ganization of delicate females, that after long
illness there is a want of elasticity, an ineitia,
a lack of healthy action, which, if long remain-
iag, induces a tendency to succumb again to
disease. Now, it stands to reason that the
thing to be done is to rouse the dormant sensi-
bility to excitement and full enjoyment, and
thus help on the machinery of the body. This
\.'e do by the judicious introduction of a gentle
stimulant, which shall be carried with the cir-
culation into every nook and comer of the
body, that thus a vivifying modification may
be kept up ; for loss of substance we shall ob-
tain a change of substance. We shall stimu-
late the whole nervous system ; we shall give
Nature time to rally her forces, and —

" Cure her up," suggested Sam, who follow-
ed me to his mother's room for sympathy.

" Kxactly, my son — • a consummation most
devoutly to be wished . ' What w medicine ?"
said Dr. Sharpe, transfixing Mrs. Barry's
youngest with his eye.

*' Castor oil and rhubarb," said Sam, prompt-
ly.

" Medicine," said Dr. Sharpe, looking se-
verely at the boy, " Is derived from the Latin
word medicina, from medior, to cure ; remem-
ber that, my little man. You will do well,
Mrs. Barry," he continued, rising and driwing
on bis glovec, " to take either before or after
meals, — which by the way, should consist of
food containing the greatest amount of nour-
ishment, — something of the description I have
mentioned ; a little old Bourbon whiskey I
would recommend ; and allow me to suggest
that Mr. Barry will find a very superior article,
the identical « Jacobs ,' as pure as the dew-drop,
at Chad wick's. He may say Dr. Sharpe sent
him. In a sons c hut oxt«>nwive practice," said
the little doctor, straightening himself and
giving his head an awfui rub, " I have found
this, as a pharmaceutical preparation, a nutri-
tlousand wholesome stimulant. I have pre-
scribed it in a multitude of cases, and with the
most gratifying results. It is soothing and
stimulating, reviving and restorative."

" And not bad to take," said Sam, pertly.

" In short," said Dr. Sharpe, " I think it will
meet your case exactly. I have the honor to
wish you good morning ;" and be was bowing
himself out when Mr. Barry entered the room.

" Ah, doctor, well met," he said. " Come
take off your coat, and let Pat put up your
horse till after dinner. I have brought our
new minister home with me, and we shall be
glad of your company. Lay aside profession-
al cares and join us."

The doctor said ho would be most happy, if
Mr. Barry would allow him to step roand with
Pat to the stable, and give a few direction)
about his horse.

" 0. Philip, how could you ask company to

dinner ! " said Mrs Barry, as soon as the doc-
tor was out of bearing. " I am sure there is
nothing ia the house fit to eat, and Katie baa
a ft' Ion on her hand, and cannot wait on table
What shall we do?"

« I can wait on table, Mrs. Barry," I said,
"if you will trust me." I had been long
enough with her to learn the ways of the
house.

" Of course she can," said Mr. Barry. •* Now,
Clara, don't fret. Tour dinner is good enough.
I met Mr. Elliott on his way from the depot,
and, in decency, I could not let him go to the
hotel to dine. Well, how do you like the doc-
tor?"

" Very much," said Mrs. Barry, with more
animation than she usually displayed. " He
is a perfect gentleman ; likes to hear himself
talk ; perhaps you will think him a little boast-
ful, but that is quite to be expec^d in one of
his ability and experience. But he is wide
awake, so different from sleepy Dr. Burton,
and he took hold of my case with great in-
terest."

"What did he say?"

" 0, he talked about the nervous system,
and the waste of tissue , and the laws of ex-
penditure and supply. I am sure he told me
more about my liver, and the chambers of my
heart, than I ever knew in my life before."

" Yes, but did he appear to understand your
case ? I think Dr. Burton did not know what
ailed you."

" 0, yes ; he says I have a weakness, and a
lack of vital power, and a torpid condition of
the liver, and a slight sympathetic affection of
the heart, and something the matter, I don't
remember what, with my great nervous cen-
tres. Wasn't that all, Lizzie ? "

" I should call it enough," said her hus-
band.

" O, but he's certain to cure me. He has
left some demercuri powderF, I think he called
them, to be taken every night, and a draught
in the morning, and orders Bourbon whiskey
as a tonic, and says you are to get it at Ohad-
wicb's ; and really I feel better already.
Lizzie, you may braid my hair, and get my
brown si I <r dress. I think I feel well enough
to go 1^' ~ dinner

" Si •■ , said Mr. Barry, " for the moral
effect Oi. H doctor."

G a APT BR 17.

DIMHIR-TABLI Ti> K.

"If all the world
Should In a fit of temp<>ranoe feed on pulse,
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but

Th' All Giver would be unthanked, would be un-

pral«*ed,
Not half bis riches known, and ypt despised;
And we should serve hi id as a grndginii master.
And a penurious niggard of bis weait b."

ShalUtptare.

DINNER-TABLB TALK.

An hour later a pleaaant company fi:Athered
round Mr. Barry's hospitable table. The hodt
was in his element, and proud of his elegant
surroundings, and pleased with the opportu-
nity for display, he was in high good humor.
He glanced at ihe well-furnisbed table, over
which his wife so gracefully presided, with a
well-satisfied umile.

Philip Barry was dresse' in the latest style,
and bejewelled and perfumed ; but, with his
mother's regularity of feature, there was an
expression so heavy and sensual upon his
handsome face, that it was less attractive to
me than Sam's freckled visage, scratched and
marred as it was from the effect of some lat^
accident or encounter.

The minister was a young man, with a
pleasant bojrish face ; and Dr. Sharpe came
from the dressing-room with bis hair brushed
so close to his head that hip appearance was
most astonishingly changed,

" You will taste my wine, gentlemen," Mr.
Barry said, when the dessert was placed on
the table. " Native wine, doctor, and a prime
article. Allow me, Mr. Elliott. Perfectly
harmless, my dear sir, I assure you. Nothing
but the pure juice of the grape."

" Ah 1" said Dr. Sharpe; "native wine did
you say ?"

"Yes, air, the Catawba wine, first brand,
and called a superior article ; a wine that is
getting a reputation thro- the country for
its fruitiness, flavor, 8^ lerous qualities ;

the pure juice, sir; 7 . particle of alcohol
about it. I get it direct from the manufac-
turers, and I know it to be the genuine arti-
cle, the real ♦ Simon Pure.' Try it, doctor, try
it."

The doctor tried it with a relish.

" The grape-growing business is getting to
be one of marked importance at the West," he
said.

" Yes, and a very profitable business it is.
I visited, last September, one of the largest
vineyards in the neighborhood of Cincinnati—
Scivintz k Brother : you may have heard of it.
It was worth seeing, I ansure you. They
showed me thirty acres of fat land, sloping to
the south-east, and well covered with vines.
It was a very pretty sight. In a good season
they tell me they make eight hundb:ed gallons
of wine to an acre, and sell it at from ten to
twelve dollars per dozen. Not a bad profit
that. And thr se young men came to Cincin-
nati, ten years ago, with just two hundred dol-
lars in their pockets between them. I suppose
there are not many richer men in the city to-
day. I should like to see this whole Connecti-
cut valley one vast vineyard. Your glass,
doctor. Mr. Elliott, you do not drink, sir."

The young minister raised the glass to his
lips, but I noticed that he barely tasted its oon-
tents. He was silent and ill at ease.

" One of the good gifts of Qod," said Dr.
Sharpe, holding his glass to the light, and
subjecting it to the ocular test forbidden by

Scripture, '' among the first of the blessings
bestowed upon our race ; for what says the
patriarch ? ' Qod give thee of the dew of
heaven, and the fatness of the earth, and
plenty of com and wine.' One of the good
gifts of Oo «. £h, Mr. Elliott 7"

" A good gift that is greatly abused, I fear,
io our day," said the young man.

" And will you tell me, sir," said Dr. Sharpe,
" what good gift of Qo i has not been abused ?
and shall we reject what is in itself good, be-
cause there are fools who pervert it to evil '
Why, sir, with the wholesome nutritious food
that supports your natural life, you may so
overload the stomach as to produce disease.
Because Luculliu and his guests made gluttons
of themselves, shall I exclude all luxuries
from my table? Because a man over hero
killed himself eating green com the other day,,
shall I swear never to taste corn again ? I
tell you, sir, < all creatures of Ood are good ;''
and as 1 read my Bible, they are all given to
us to enjoy in moderation, 'All things are
yours,' says the apostle ; and I rejoice to be-
lieve that this life-giving, life-saving fluid is
one of the good things created, and which
Gk>d has commanded us to receive with thanks-
giving and partake with moderation."

He rubbed his head so many times during
this speech, that when he had finished it
looked like a hay-stack, and he glared quite
savagely through his spectacles at poor Mr.
Blliott.

"Give me your hand, doctor," said Mr.
Barry, reaching his own across the table.
" You speak my mind exactly ; and it is quite
refreshing, in these days of fanatical teetota-
lism, to have a sensible Bible view of the
subject. I rejoice, sir that a man of your en-
lightened views has come among ua."

The doctor glowed with satisfaction.

« But, doctor," said Mr. Blliott, " where you
are strong, your neighbor may he weak. To
my mind there is no stronger argument used
sy the teetotaler"— he hesitated a little as hn
spoke the word— "than this: 'I will drink
nothing intoxicating lest I encourage drunk-
enness, the great and crying sin of the age.
" If meat make my brother to offend, I will
eat no meat while the world standeth." ' '

" Twaddle," said Dr. Sharpe. " Poor, weak,
sentimental nonsense 1 1 must do what I
know to be right, and if others pervert my
example, that is their lookout. Paul was
putting an extreme case. It's plain enough
to see that. Didn't he eat meat all his life,
and command his followers to go to the sham-
bles and buy without asking whether it had
been offered to idols or not? Did he bind
them to any total abstinence pledge ? Didn'c
he tell them they were called to the liberty,
the glorious liberty of the Gospel ? '

' He is a freeman whom i be Iruth makes tree.
All else are slaves '—

and so, sir, I consider it a duty I owe to my

THS FASflLY OOOTOft.

ftlloW'Bien to partake modatataly of wine and
spirits, in company, that I may gire my pro-
test against drunknness on the one hand and
&natical teetotalism on the other."

It was a duty Dr. Sharpe performed with
cheerful alacrity on the present occasion, Phi-
lip Barry looking on with all the approbation
his heavy face was capable of expressing,
while bis young brother applauded softly with
knife and fork on the table.

" Physicians are using the article very ex-
tensively in their practice at the present day,"
said Mr. Barry.

« And with great success, sir," retomed the
doctor. " Our most eminent practitioners are
giving it their unanimous and unqualified ap-
proval. Take a case of fever, for instance,
urgent, but under the iDfluence of stimulant
doing well— vhe ship in a terribla sea, but
minding the helm, and steering steadily ; at
such a time I have longed to have a radical
total abstinence man at my side, that I might
say to him, pointing to my patient, ' There,
sir, is a glorious example of the use of that
good gift of Ood you, in yonr stupidity and
folly, would cast away.' The man is taking,
we will say, a table&poonful of sherry every
hour, or a larger allowance of claret, or a
smaller proportion of brandy, as the case may
require, the dose varying to meet the different
phases of the disease ; and at every dose you
can almost see health returning, the cheek
less flushed, the skin cooler, the eye clearer,
the pulse less frequent ; in fact, all unfavorable
symptoms giving way before its life-giving
power. Sir, it is wonderful."

" Well, what's tlie philosophy of it, doctor 7
Does alcohol feed the man 7"

"Not atalL It stimulates the nervous
system. It spurs the nerves and nervous
centres, and keeps them awake, when other-
wise they would go to sleep and leave the
vital functions to fail, to flag ; in fact, to go
to sleep too. The nervous power is kept sctive,
and this excites the vital force."

"But^ doctor," said Mr. Elliott, "yon are
putting the man's vital strength to a terrible
strain. To go a little further with your own
illustration: Suppose your steamship has a
limited supply of coal and water. You are
using it up at a tremendous rate. What if it
gives out 7 "

" Well, we most run the risk of that," said
Dr. Sharpe. " We cannot afford to let our fire
get low. Our best chance is in ' cracking on,'
as they say, in the hope tiiat the good dup
may reach some friendly shelter, where she can
coal and water for the rest of the way."

Here Sam, wlu> had lately been engaged in
building miniature ships, and, consequently,
was deeply interested in naatioal aflbirs, broke
in:—

<< And what if she don't T " said, the boy ea-
gerly.

" Then she goes under, my son ; or, in other
wordi^ the patient dies. But even ia that

case, the narcotic influence of the alcohol
deaaens and quiets the nervous centres and
the brain, and he drops quietly away."

" I should hate to die drunk," said Sam.

"Among all your remedies," said Mr. EI-
liott, " is there nothing tLat can be substitut-
ed for alcohol— quinine, columbo, cascarilla,
ammonia 7 "

"Sir," said Dr. Sharpe, "alcohol is the
menstruum for more than one hundred and
fifty preparations of the pluirmacopoeia." lie
fired this off as if he had been shot. " Do
without alcohol 7 As well make bread with-
out flour as prepare those remedies without
their basil. Alcohol imparts a power of re-
sistance to the enervating influence of a hot
climate. It is an antidote to poisonous
malaria ; it is an antidote to impure water.
Sir, it is a well-established fact in medical
science, that cold water, taken in excess, in-
creases the interstitial metamorphosis of tis-
sue. Our seamen must have their dram ; our
soldiers would be co wart's without it."

" Father," said Sam, " in the book you gave
me Christmas, it says, 'Havelock's soldiers
never were drunk and never afraid.' "

The doctor took out his watch. " I must
really tear myself away," he said ; and, with
his hair in a dreadful state of disorder, he bow-
ed himself out It was the signal for the
breaking up of the party. Mr. Barry and the
minister walked down street together, and Mrs.
Barry went to her room for her afternoon nap.
Philip, his &ce flushed, and his gait a little
unsteady, sauntered out to the stables, and
Sam and I were left in the dining-room.
While I gathered up the silver, he lingered
about the table, boy-like, picking nuta and
raisins from the plates. He stopped at Dr.
Sharpe's seat, and filled the empty glass.

" ' One of the good gifts of Ood, ' " he said,
running his fingers through his hair, and imi-
tating the doctor's pompous manner to the life,
" ' which I consider it my duty to enjoy on
all occasions.' "

«< Put it down, Sam," I said. " 0, don't
drink it."

"Why not 7 Father don't care. There's
hundreds of bottles down cellar. He's brick-
ed up a place on purpose for them."

" But it will hurt you," I said. " Please
don't drink it."

Sam looked at me in astonishment.

" Well, if that isn't a good one 1 " he said,
at length; "after you've heMd the learned
doctor lecture for half an hour on the virtues
of the life-giving fluid ; pitohing into the tea-
totalers, and giving them fita generally ; and
proving it M out of the Bible, too I Why,
Lizzie, what's come over you 7 "

" I can't help it, Sam. I know he is learn-
ed and scientific, and all that, and I cannot
answer his aigumento ; but 1 know that he is
wrong. It made my heart ache to hear him
talk so— a gray-headed man, who has been
aboat the world so maob, and must know the

THB OLD QEaB-WOMAN.

erael things drink is doing. And, worse than
all the rest, he tried to prove it from the Bible,
and talked about ' the glorioas liberty of the
Oospel.' as if that holy book, anywhere, gives
people liberty to make beasts of themselves,
or to tempt others to the dreadful habit. This
is what it says : ' Take heed lest hy any
means this liberty of yours become a stum-
bling-block to them that are weak.' ] thought
of that text while be was talking, for it was
one of my references last Sabbath. And in
another place it says, <Woe to him that
giveth his neighbor drink.' 0, how can a
Christian man talk like that 7 »

<' I wondsr why the minister kept so still,''
said Sam. " He hardly said a word ; and did
you mind how uneasy ho looked, and luurdly
tasted his wine T But, Lizzie, what a
funny little man the new doctor is t He rubs
his head so much that the bare spot on top
shines like a looking-glass. Why don't yon
laugh ? I declare yon look really cross,
and your &ce is as red as ablaze. Lizzie, keep
cool."

" How can I T " I said. " I felt vexed and
sorry to hear Dr Sharpe talk so, and Philip
and you sitting by. And, Sam, it makes me
shudder now to see that glass of wine in your
hand."

** Pooh I " said Sam, coloring, and setting
down the wine, I don't eare for the stuff. I
should be ashamed to swill it down as Phil
does. What with his cigars, and his lager
beer, and fast horses, he's getting to be a regu-
lar loafer. Well I'moff ; but, Lazie,"— com-
ing back, and putting his head in at the
door,— " what's a fellow going to doT He
don't want his tUsues m«<aniorpAo«izec{ drink-
ing cold water->does he T "

I was still busy in the dining-room, wash-
ing Eaty's silver, when Philip Barry came in.
I had seldom spoken with this young man.
With his brother, who was in all parts of the
house a dozen times a day, and in his mother's
room, where my duties chiefly lay, most of all,
I was on familiar terms of acquaintance ; and
with all the boy's love of fun and miscliief,
and a certain pertness that made him disa*
greeable at times, there was a frank open-
heartedness and generosity of disposition that
I liked exceedingly ; and we were good friends.
His brother I seldom saw, and, to tell the
truth, was glad to keep out of his way.

He came in to^lay for another glass of wine
I suppose, for he looked disappointed when he
found the table cleared, and Uie wine locked
up in the old-fashioned sideboard in the cor-
ner of the dining-room. He stood a moment
in the doorway, his jaunty cap on one side, a
cigar in his mouth, and his hsAds in his pock-
ets. Then, coming close to me, and putting
his hand familiarly on my shoulder, he asked
me to run to Eaty fbr the key of the sideboard.
I did his bidding, aiul on my return found him
standing before the mirror admiring himself.
« I say, Lizsie," he called out, *' what do

you think of this new suit of mine About
the thing— isn't it T"

I said it was very haadsiMBe.

" Yes, they do things up about right at
Snipper's. Fashionable tailors, but very
dear ; but the governor's got the tin, you
know. Ha, ha 1" He took the key from my
hand, and opening the sideboard, helped him-
self to I know not how many glasses of wine;
then coming close to me again, « I say, Liz-
zie," he said, " a blue ribbon wouldn't look
bad in that brown hair of yours ; and you'd
call it cheap for a kiss now — wouldn't yon ? "
I left my silver unfiniahed, and ran np-stairf
to my mistress.

OHAPTBB V.

TBI OlD HIRB WOMAN.

"fibe* roaming, with her pack, tbe country side*
From boure to bouse on trade and godsip bent.

And kind and fearless In her honest pride,
Is with ber wandering life mil well eontent."

I wag in the kitchen one morning, doing
some fine starching for Mrs. Barry, when the
outer door was thrown open, and a tall woman
entered the room. Her clothes were travel-
stained and old. She wore heavy shoes upon
her feet, and a cap with a broad rufSe, and a
monstrous black bonnet upon her head. She
stalked across the room with rather an nn-
steady gait, speaking to no one until she was
comfortably seated by the fire. Then she set
down the basket she carried, carefully folded
back her dress, and extended a pair of mon-
strous feet upon tiie hearth. Her face was red,
her features large, but not uncomely, and there
was a good-humored twinkle in her black
eye.

" Ton don't want no eelder buds, nor alder
buds, nor gilead buds, nor white pine bark,
nor sassafhu, nor life-o'-man, nor garden pars-
ley root»— do ye ? " she said in a voice pitched
on a lugh treble.

"Hallo, Huldyt is that you T" said SaiJi^
coming in that moment ; " I want some sassa^
fras bark."

"Ax yer ma for a sixpence," she rejoined,
withdrawing her basket from his meddlesome
fingers.

Away went Sam.

" Who is she T " I inquired, following Brid'^

get to the pantry.
"Who is she?
nor nobody else,
that niver had a
tinder heart, Qod bless her I
of her shuts their doors to

Sure it's meself don't know,

It's a poor, wanderin' body

home. The mistress has a

It isn't the likes

them tluit^a in

«■

throuble. So she lits her come and go as she
plaises, and we gives her odd jobs to do, jlst to
kape her aisy like. It's a stroBg arm the ba«

THt I*AMlLt I^OOTOa.

whiA bWa the will to lift it ; more ■luune to
her that she can't let the craythar alone.*'

"Here's your sixpence, Huldy, to fill npthe
black bottle, " said Sam, returning ; " and
mother says you are to stay, and sweep the
attic, and clean the wood-shed chamber, and
scour the pantry, and scrub the Idtohen, and
bring up in the collar, and we'll have a ^inrai
cleaning."

"Will yez be quiet, Sam Barry?" said
Bridget ; " or I'll tell the mistress how yer
tongue runs away wid ye."

" Will yez be quiet, Bridget Flannagan f or
I'll tell Pat Maloney who you tallced with at
the baclL gate Sunday night," retorted Sam.

" The by lias eyes in the baciL of his head
and walces all the time he's slapin , " said the
discomfited Bridget.

" Ha, ha I " laughed Sam ; " Fve got yon
there, Biddy. 0, be aisy— can't ye 7 "

"Thin will yez let her alone? Shurelcan't
kape a quiet tongue in me head and hear a
puir body run on the like o* that."

The " puir body" looked well able, with her
good right arm, to fight her own battles ; but
she was taking it very quietly, apparently
equally inditferentto the attacks of her enemy
and the defence of her friend. She deliberate-
ly laid aside her bonnet, and lighted her pipe,
and sat pufSng away, with half-closed eyes in
perfect content.

"Isn't she jolly? "said Sam, aside, to me.
" 0, but she makes the feathers fly sometimes.
This morning she's got just enough abowrd to
feel good-natnred. I wish you could hear her
talk. I mean to try to stir her up." He sat
down to chew his sassafras.

" The folks are all a-dyin' out to Vamon,"
said Huldab, taking her pipe from her mouth.

" Dew tell I " said Sam.

She looked at liim a little doubtAiUy; but
Sam was as grave as a judge.

"Square Demin's young uns are all down
with the measles, wust kind, too. Ike Wilson,
he got bit by a rattlesnake, a week ago Fri-
day, when he was cuttin' timber on Bolton
Moubting ; leg swelled up as big as a barrel.
Then one o' them Pumroy gals pizened her-
self with ratsbane, and old Miss Bascom
swallowed a fish-bone, and choked till her face
was as black as the chimbly."

" How you talk I " said Sam.

"And Zeko Terry— every knows Zeke—
used to team it between Haifoid and Vamon ;
lives on the middle road, jest afore yer come
to the big hill. Be married one o' them Slun-
ner gals, the long-fovored, humbly one, you
know. Well, they found him last Sunday
morning, hangin' on an apple-tree, back side
o' the bam, stun dead. Tou see," said Huldab,
warming with her subject, " he tuk the clothes
line, and doubled it a sight o* times to make
it stont enough, and then he dim' up and
tied it onto him. H« was a short, pussy little
feller ; but the limb was so nigh the ground
he had to double his legs, or they'd teched.

The wimmin follu, they found him. Mis' Ter<
ry, she see him first, and they say she hollered
so load they heerd her clear over to Square
Adams's. He waa the blackest copse I ever
see in my life."

She told the story with evident delight, lie -
gering upon each horrid detail.

" What made him do it ? " said Sam, a Uttle

Whiskey," said Hnldah ; "he drinked up all
the old man's money, and the fisrm was mort-
gaged, — the puttiest piece o' medder land in
Harford Coanty, — and he got iiinder desprit,
and didn't know where to turn. If he'd kep
stiddy he'd done well enough, for he was allers
right smart for bizness ; but he got to drinkin'
and carryin' on down to the tarvern every
night Sam Barry," said Huldab, with great
solemnity, " doa^i yet drink a drop o' whiskey
as long as yer live."

" What shaU I drink ? " said Sam -> " gin ? "

" Cold water," said Huldab, shaking her head
with tipsy gravity.

" Gold water will metamorphosize my tis-
snes." Dr. Sharpe said so — didn't he, Liz-
zie?"

"Ter see, boy," said Huldah, "if yer git a
hankerin' arter it when yer young, yer can't
never stop."

"Did yon git a hankerin' arter it when you
was young, Huldy ? "

" Well I did, child ; it was, ' Huldy, run and
draw a pitcher tf cider;' and, 'Huldy, fetch
the toddynstick ; ' and, < Huldy, taste <f tliis ere
flip, and see if it's sweet enough.' Wlien I
was a gal everybody drinked. It was bitters
in the momin', and a dram at noon, and a mug
o^ smokin' hot flip at night ; and I used to fetch
an' carry. I kep house for father, yer see ;
mother died when I was goin' on fourteen.
We owned a good farm out in York State, and
in hayin' and harvestin' time there was plenty
o' liquor ronnd. Father wasn't no hand to
stint folks, an' he could carry more inside than
any man I ever see. Good luid I he didn't
make no more o* drinkin' a pint o' raw sperit
afore breaicfast than you would so much water ;
but he was a gitting along in years, and arter
a spell it began to tell on him. He was pious,
father was. He used to ax a blessiu' afore
every meal, and pray us all to sleep at bed-
time. One hot day, in hayin' time, we all got
sot round the dinner-table, an' father he put
his two hands together to ax the blessin' ; but
there didn't no blessin' come. He jest stam-
mered a bit^ and down went his head on the
table. Sez Mose Allen, sez he, — that's our
hired man, — ' Ood Almighty cuss the ram ; '
and that's all the blesiin' we had that day."

" Well," said Sam, for she stopped to draw a
long sigli from her great hollow cliest.

"Well, the old man run down party fast
arter that, and went off at last in a fit o' the
' horrors.' The last words he said was, ' For
the Lord's sake gin me some rum.' Then the
fiarm had to be sold to pay off bis debts."

THI OLD B EBB- WOMAN.

I' And where did yon go T " said Sun, for
■he took up her pipe, as if her story was ended.

•< Who, I r O, I went down to Utiky, and
hired out to a rich old widder woman. She
drinked, too."

« Gracious I" said Sam ; " and did you
keep on tastin' there t "

Hnldah driw another long breath from her
capacious bosom.

" Well," she said at last, " she was a clever
old body, and she done well by me too. She
was all swelled up with the dropsy, and
couldn't git round much, and she needed a
sight o' waitin' an' tendin'. Law, I never shall
forgit, to my dyin' day, how every Friday
arternoon— diem's the days the minister used
to come and sea her, — she sot great store by
his visits — she'd say to me, se> she, ' Huldy,'
sea she, ' put on my Sunday go-to-meetin' cap,
an' my best linen cambric hankercber, an' j^t
my gold-rim spectacles,' sen she, < an' wheel
out the little round table, an' open the big
Bible, an' draw up my arm-cheer,' sez she, ' an'
then you go an' see if Dr. Nichols is a comin.'

" So I'd git her nicely fixed, an' she'd torn
over the leaves till she'd find the place,— she
was mighty fond o' readin' out loud,-' And
the Lord spake unto Moses sayin'— ' ' Huldy,
Huldy, is Dr. Nichols comin', Huldy ?' < No,
marm,'sez I. * Well, Huldy,' sez she, 'goto the
corner cupboard, the keepin'-room,' sez she,
'an ' git me one spunful out o' the dimijohn ;
only one spunful, Huldy.' < Yes marm,' sez I ;
'an', Huldy,' sez she, 'don't forgit the nutmeg,
nor the sugor,' sez she. ' No, marm,' sez L So
I fixes it all nice, an' it cherks her up wonder-
ful. Then she starts off agin : ' And the Lord
spake unto Moses' — ' Huldy, Huldy, is Dr.
Nichols a-comin', Huldy ? ' ' Tes, marm,' sez
I ; he's jest round the comer.' ' Well, run quick
Huldy,' sez she, ' an' git me one spunful onto*
the demijohn, an' never mind the nutmeg an'
the sugar this time.' Well, she wouldn't
more'n git that down, an' the glass chucked
away, 'fore in comes the minister. Shu's well
primed by that time. Land o' liberty 1 how
she would quote scriptur 1 ' Your missus ain't
long for this world,' sez the minister, sez he,
when I was a-waitin' on him out.

" Well she got worse by an' by. There came
a powerful big 8W( 'lin' on her shoulder, an'
she had sioh a gnawin' an' a burnin' inside on
her, it seemed as her in'ards was all afire.
Well, two or three doctors come to look at her,
and sez she to the head one, ' What do you
think of me, doctor 7 ' sez she. * It's my duty
to tell yon, mirm, to prepare for the wust,'
sez he. ' You don't mean to say Fm a-going* to
die ? ' sez my missus, a-flamin' up. ' You may
drop off any time,' sez he. ' Yon lie 1 ' sez she;
' yer a good-for-nothin' old quack I I won't
die t I tell yer I won't die t ' an she up with a
big ]uuk bottle o' medicine, an flung it straight
at his head.

" Well she ink on dretful for awhile, and
then, sez she, kinder low an' faint like:

' Huldy,' soz she, ' git me one spunful out <f
the dimijohn ; Jest one tput\ful.' She could
swaller, an' that was all. I see she was a sink-
in' fast, an' I couldn't helpfeelin' bad, for she'd
been a good missus. ' What are yer cry in' for ? '
sez she, kinder snappish. ' 'Cause yer a-dyin',
sez I. 'I ain't, nuther,' sei she ; an' them's
the last words she spoke.

" Well," said Huldah, wiping her eyes, " they
gin me the dlm^ohn, and all t'was in it;
but there wam't more'n a pint on't left."

"0, toll us some more, Huldy," said
Sam ; " where did you go then ? "

Bat she was not to be coaxed. " Til git on my
every-day gownd," she said, "and go to
work."

I wondered where the "every-day gownd"
was coming from, for, save her basket of herbs,
she came empty-handed. But I was soon en-
lightened, la less time than it takes me to
write it, she threw off the old brown delaine
dress she wore, displaying tmderneath a gor-
geous striped calico. This, too, was thrown
aside, and she stood before us arrayed in a fad-
ed gingham. Last of all, she appeared in a
scant blue cotton homespun, barely reaching
to her ankles. If I thought her tall before,
what was she now, drawn to her tall height,
her bare brawny arms a-kimbo t The pile
of cast-off clothes at her ride was a sight
to behold ; and I watched the process of dis-
robiug with the interest one might feel in see-
ing a mummy unrolled, wondering what we
should come to at last. I even looked sus-
piciously at the " every-day gownd," wonder-
ing what further stock in the dry goods line
might be hidden beneath its scanty folds.
Some of these garments were tied by the
sleeves to her waist ; others hung by a single
button, and all were arranged so as i>.ot to im-
pede locomotion.

" Now I call that the way to travel," said
Sam, admiringly ; " no great trunks to break
porters' backs ; no ' big box, little box, band-
box, and bundle.' ' Women allowed to take
what baggxge they can carry on their backs/
That's going to be the rule aboard my train of
cars. Huldy, you are the girl for me."

She surveyed him with a look of lofty pa-
tronage. " ril go up chamber," said she, " and
see what Mis' Barry wants I should take hold
on fust."

" I should think you would vex her some-
times, Sam," I said, when she was out of hear-
ing. "She is sharp enough to know when
you make pport of her."

"'Deed she is," said Bridget; "and it'sme-
self is glad to see him kiteh it times. She
kin whip a grown man aisy, lit alone a spal-
peen like him. I was wake wid laffin', one
day, after he'd grased her mop an' tracked her
clane floor, an' bothered around till theblissed
St. Francis wud a lost patieaoe,to see her kiteh
him up squirmin', and lay him over her knees
like a babby, niver mindin' his kickin' an'
screamin' no more'n you'd mind a skeety."

" I

i "i\

niM VAIIILT BOCrOB.

"Tkni W1M ha,** Nil Bmu

•An' «•■ Ik ftatt irtkMi dlediiolaa ilM kaad
of m te lUto dttty w4tk«r, aftot y^d dMppAd *
liT* ttiaddle-baf Ilk hw ifMh-tabt" *ld
Bridget.

«* U, hoa«r, be tftay,'* MM 8Ui ; " UMto» I
aerer OMde Iwr mftilmi eoM, <ed «Mrliig Mad,
TOQ kaow ; aad th»t waa wIMi I tidied bar a
ftool. Moth«r*4dIiaa«ktenlMirItlrliai6rr]r
for tbat .»

"AaddMyooT"

« Of ooarae I dM. I gol dowa Oa toy ktMi,
and mj» I, < Baldy, I aan rial i&rrf yM aw •

OHAPTSB VL
ptBASAaT mifOBnM.

hnwoydyMtfadiflMI,

Iti K

Undw Dr. 8hMrpe^l trwtHant, Mia. Barry's
health rapidly improTed. and la a few waeki
her firiendi were yratlfled to flad hw gaining
fleth aad oolor. **I believe it ia tbe Bour-
bon," alie laughingly said to the doctor, when
he oonpUaented her on her improTed ap-
vmuao: '*r. aoti IUm a charm. My haa-
hand laye I grow young OTeiy day."

The doctor wai deUghted. «The rerj ra-
inlt I aatioipated, my dear aMMHan," he laid.
<* It ie among the Itappy ^hota of thii wmtdy
that it rejuvonates the bloody fiUiag oat the
glands and tiMoee, at the aame time it kaepa
np a Tififying modifloati<m in the oaplUaviea
of the muooofl membrane of the (rtemadi."

«'!( was really disagreeable at ftrst, dootor.
I used to think I ooold not take spirito of any
kind, my >konBaeh is so weak ( bat after a fsw
doses, I was able to bear the Bourbon veif
wtdLand aow Iqoite like the taste of tt."

** The gaatrlo fluids preTeat any aoetoos
fcrmentatioB to whioh aloohol issnliieot, Mrs.
Barry. We often use it aa a stomach restois*
tiTO. Ton find it not only a sUmalant hat
a sedatire, most sootiiiBg and qaietiag in ita
taifluence upon the wh<Aa ayston."

"Doctor, I find it eTervthing; a kind of
soTerdgn remedy for * all the ills that flesh
is heir to.' I come in whansted, after my
ride, and it rests and stningthena ma for aU
day. If anything goes wrong about the house
— «nd yon know all housekeepers haTo their
troubles,— and I fiad myself growing nerrooa
Mid exoited, I resort to my Bourbon, and fsal
calm direetty. I know it gives me stMngth
for extra dutiea. It inonasea my aigf^i*, and,
when I take it befMO retiring, I sleq^Iikean
infhnt.''

«< Very good/* said the doctor. "Ithlnkwa
are on the right traol^ Mrs. Batxy."

«I shall feel giateftal to Dr. Sharpeas long
IS I live," I heard Mia. Barry say to her hua-

bMd aae day. "I Ml Hha a new creature
alnoa be took hidd of my oaae. What a blean
ingit is to have a good deotor I »

Those were quiet, hugnj days ia aay new
home. I love to remember them. I linger
ovar thaaa. I flannet baaa to leave them be-
hind; for though even then, the ahadow of a
gnat aorrotr was daikeniag under the reaf, we
knew it not And in the foreground of every
ptetiin aiy memory paints, I aee one graceful,
waaaanly form } one sweet face, the aagel of.
the houN^ the centre of aU those home joyL
the happy wife, the dear mother, the kiiDa
mtottrass and friend.

Let sue recall some of those ^otores. It is
a oool evei^ag in Oeiober. The parlors are
not warmed, but in *' motber^i room," firom the
dpan flteplaoe, a bright fire biases It pene-
tratoa to all parte of the room. The orfmaoa
oortaina glow with it. It flaahea over the
mirror and dreaaing-toble, revealiag all the
degant triflea of a kdy'a toilei H hghto up
avery flower in the pattern of the aoft carpet
aoaroely leaa beautifbl in their form and color-
ing than the teal flowera that fill the room
with their pedhune. And in Ito glow, the
warm light ahining ftUl upon her face, I aea
heir sitting— my dear ndatreaa. I think as I
gaxe, that^ wMi that exqulaita oomplexion,
those deep, loving, niothet'a eyea^ and that
quiet amila, aha muat be lovelier in the ma-
turity of her ftorty yeara than in the full fluah
ofher^rtiahbeaaky. I think of this, aitting
in my quiet comer, and fan<7 that Sam, lying
on the carpet at her fcet, tlthtka ao too. Oer-
talidy, aa ho raiaea hia eyea now and then to •
bar fine; her white hand M the while oareaa-
ing hia rough hafa:, the firelight flaahea into
them, and I aea a look of admiration and ho>
ntage such aa a lover might give to his mtstreaa,
but which Bmob, perhaps, would conaider it be-
neath Ua boyish dignity to espieaa in worda for
hisaaother. Meanwhile, the haaband and fiather
in his luxorioas arm^idiair, stretches his slip-
pered feet to the fire, and glances over hia
paper now and then at the group, the word
mint written in hia proud eye and comphwent
saaile.

0, cruel deatvoyer^ to violate such a sanc-
tuary I O, rulMess enemy, to break in upon
auchlovol

Another picture. It Is a rainy day in sum-
mer. Outside, the ceaseless patter, the soft
music on the roo^andthestirr^of the green
leaves aa the cool drops klaa their faces.
Wifliin we are very quieft. I have been read-
ing aloudj something about the death of a
little child. It stirs old memories in the mo-
ther's heart, and, for the first time, ahe apeaks
tome of the baby girl ahe lost yeara ago. I
am aent to a vacant chamber to briag a little
trui^E. It ia not heavy ; but I fMl, aa I carry
it through the Itmg hall, aa if I waa bearing a
child'a coffin. I set it down reverently at her
feel nowly, one by one, from thdr wmp-
pings between lavender leavea, ahe takea the

itar«
leM.

B«ir
iger

Urn

r,wd

rwry
)Ail,
il<rf.

Oft.

ind

tif

are

the

ne-

M>a

the

pet

or-

ihe

• I

lat

la-

ir-
k>*

•-
to

«»

»•
ir
w

>•
'm
d
it

I-
a

PLIA8AMT IflMORIM.

clothM hrr deiwl b*bjr wore, touching them
v»ry Hoftly and layioK them oa bur knuus. 8be
klHHei tb« dainty luce capR, the bright curala
that rcHtud on the dimpled ■houldttrs, and
prvgaeH the little worn Mhoe* to her heart.
She does not cry much ; but all the mother is
in her eyeR, and by and by, holding in her
hand a rubber ring, all dented with the print
of little teeth, i-he talks to me about her loat
darling; telling me how, if she had lived, she
would be almost a woman grown, but hopes
•he sliall find her a baby in heaven. Then
Sam, coming in, rude and boisterous, from the
outer world, is hushed and sobered In a mo-
ment, and tries to sl'nk away ; but his mother
calls him back to say a tuw cameat words
about his sister in heaven. And the boy for-
gets to be meddlesome, and looks, but never
touches, and, softened and subdued, but
aibamed to show it, rubs his nose with bis
dirty knuckles, and winks hard to keep back
the tears.

0. cruel foe I 0, enemy worse than death !
to raise a barrier between that mother and her
angel child I

Once more. I am sad and burdened. I am
worrying about mother. The ease and bap-
p;nef>8 of my own life bring hers in sad con-
trast I think of hei, plying her needle so
closely, rising early and sitting up late, and
still, with all the help I can give her, barely
earning bread for herself and her children. J
try to keep back the tears, but they drop upon
my work. P resently a soft hand touches my
shoulder. " What is it, Lizzie ? " my mistress
says, and never leaves me till she gets to the
very bottom of my heart. And then, comfort-
ing me with a few words of synuMthy, she aits
down to think, and to such good purpose that
when her husband comes home in the evening
she has a plan all arranged. Mrs. Barry's
plans are generally carried out, for Mr. Barry
is very proud of his handsome wife, and her
wish is his law. When I go to my little room
at night she follows me, and, sitting on the
bed by my side, she tells, with loving enthu-
siasm, bow it is all settled — that mother is
to give up the old house, which is tumbling
to pieces over her head, move down to tne
village, and keep a factory boarding-house.
Mr. Barry will take the house, and advance the
money she needs to furnish a better, and pay
the first quarter's rent. She tells me this with
sparkling eyes, and puts her fingers lightly on
my lips when I try to speak my thanks. And
it is all accomplished so quietly that in a
week my dear mother is settled in hernew
home, busy, bat not over worked, and greatly
benefited by the change. Dear, generous, no-
ble-hearted woman 1 I never saw her angry in
thoce days but once, and then it was with her
youngest boy, her " baby," as she still loved
to call him.

He ran in one day in great ezoitdment and
high glee.
« mother, such fun with Holdy I She's as

dmnk as she con b«. She's been hollering and
screeching all the way from ' The Gomen, '
and we boys chasMl her, and pelted her with
mnd. Mother, you don't know how she swore
at US, ami every time she tried to catch ua she
fell In the gutter.'

His mother rose to her feet, her eyes flaih-
ing, and a scarlet spot on each cheek.

" Did you pelt that poor creatute withmud?"
she said.

** All the other boys did," whimpered Sam.

" You cruel, mean, wiuktid boy I I am
ashamed to call yon son. Where Is the poor
woman ? "

" She tumbled down on the kitchen door<
step," said Sam, looking greatly crestfallen.

A moment after, Mrs. Barry was bending
over the bloated, disfigured object, with scarce
a trace of womanhood about her, lying upon
the threshold. She was covered with dirt and
blood, for she struck her head in falling, and
the wound bled* freely. With her own hand
Mrs Barry lifted the tangled gray hair from
the dishonored head, tenderly wiping the
blood away. "Poor creature I" wa« all she
said : but there was a world of pity in her voice
and in the touch of her hand. When a com-
fortable bed was provided, and Huldah was
laid down, as senseless aa a log, I saw Mrs.
Barry steal softly in, to see that she was com-
fortably covered.

" She called me meanP lold Sam to me. in
great disgust. " Wicked and mean. It's Iwd
enough to be wicked, but I believe I would
rather be called wickegFl than mean."

" If you are one, you will be very apt to be
the other," I said ; *' for the two go hand in
hand."

" Yon know the difference," said the boy.
" It's wicked to steal and to swear, or to breidc
any of the commandments ; and its mean -•
well, to pelt an old drunken woman with mud,
I suppose."

" Then you don't call It mean to sneak into
a man's room when he is asleep and steal his
money, or to speak lightly ot the Ood who
made you ? Sam I all wicked actions are
mean, and despicable, and unworthy. Be true
and love God supremely, and you will never
be called mean.'

" Now, Lizzie, don't preach. I feel cross, and
hateful, and bad enough, without being lec-
tm-ed. Do come and beat me as hard oa ever
you can. It will feel good."

I loved this boy. People called him " the
black sheep of the family," because, unlike the
rest, he was plain in personal appearance and
rough in manner. But he had a noble heart,
was frank, afifectionate, and unselfish in dis-
position, and possessed a fund of drollery and
good humor thai made him a most agreeable
companion. We were much together in his
mother's room and about the house ; and he
often called upon me for assistance in hii
amusements out of doors. I think he liked me ;
and I earnestly desired to use the influence I

THli fAMILT DOCTOSi

possessed orer him for good, and to see his
many endearing qualities of head and heart
supplemented bv higher Olirietiaa virtues.
But I founa it difficult to talk to Sam on the
subject of religion. Let me approach the mat-
ter erer so delicately, he was sure to take the
alarm, and either be suddenly called away, or,
by some irresistibly comical remark, make me
Ittugh, and so diveit me from my purpose. If
these methods failed, and I persisted in pur-
suing the unwelcome subject, he would listen
a while and then say, with a tea-ific yawn,—

" There now, yon have preached enough for
this time. Lizzie, you and motlier are fi rst rate
in your way ; but yon are dreadfully tiresome
when you talk religion."

Up to this time, I remember but one oppor-
tunity he gave me to press the matter home to
his heart We were plantins; flower-seeds, one
morning, in his mother's garden, when he sud-
denly put this question to me :—

" Lizzie, what is it to be a Christian ? "

" It is to love the Lord Jesus Christ," said I,
''with all your heart."

" Yes, I know that's what the Bible says ;
and that people who thint^ they are pious join
the church, and take bre:id and wine com-
munion-days, and go to church every Sunday
and to prayer-meetings in the week time ; but
what I mean is, how do they really live any
diferent from other people f Tou see, I was
thinking about it in church the other Sunday,
—I wish somebody would tell Mr. Elliott not
to preach such long sermons,— and I counted
up the church members who sit right around
us, and tried to think whatgood their religion
did them. There's Mr. Clair, with his head
full of railroad stocks and bank dividends
from Monday morning till Saturday night.
What sort of a Christian do you call him?
And Squire Bawson, all taken up with poiitics ;
and old Beed, who can't see anything but the
'almighty dollar ;' and Deacoa Gibbs, who
gets mad and all but swears ; and Jim Philips,
who loves a good horse a sight better than he
loves a prayer-meetiDg ; and Mi-. Brown, who
owns stock in a company that runs trains on
Sunday; and— well, I don't think of any
other just now. But there's plenty more in
our church ; and a pretty example they set to
the world I "

« One who sees so many faults in his neigh-
boTB ought to be about right himself," I said.

" At least, I don't make any professions,"
said the boy. " I would be ashamed to be a
member of the church and live as those men
do. I believe I stand just as good a chance of
getting to heaven as any of them."

" Admitting for the sake of the argument,
that all you say about these members of the
church is true, Sum, do >ou think your chance
of getting to heaven is any better because of

their inconsistencies f WhbU you broke thd
regulations of the school the other day, and
wore sent up to the principal's room, do you
think it would have helped your cause with
Mr. Page to have told him that Tom Fishur
communicated in jtudy hours, and Bates
played truant, and I orbes copied liis example ?"

<< I'll bet it wouldn't," said Sam ; " Mr. Page
hates tell-tales."

" And when you come to stand before Qod'g
bar, * to be judged for the deeds done here in
the body,' do you think He will accept it as an
excuse foryour neglect of religion that Deacoii
Oibbs and Squire Bawson, and all the rest,
were inconsistent Christians? "

" Of coarse not," saJd Sam. " What a ques-
tion!"

" No. W^ll, then, I don't see whai business
it is of yours or mine whether they are good
Christiana or not God will judge them, not
you or L And they are not our models. I
don't find in my Bible that we are ^n follow in
the steps of any man, but we are to be ' per-
fect, even as our Father in heaven is perfect.'

Sam, we have enough to do, you and I, and
all of us, 'to work out our own salvation with
fear and trembling.' Our own sins are heavy
enough to bear ; for pity's sake, don't let us
burden ourselves with the weight of other
people's. Imean, by dwelling upon them and
censuring them. In all gentleness and chari-
ty we ought to warn and counsel over all
whom we have influence, who we know are
doing wrong, remembering that only the
grace of God in our hearts keeps us from
committing the same transgressions. And
Sam,->I can't help it if you do say I am lec-
turing you, — there will come a time when, if
you have not found pardon and acceptance
through the blood of your Saviour, the weight
of your own sins will crush you to the earth
and cover you with confusion and shame ; for
we must all die alone, meet God alone, and be
judged alone. O Sam, how happy it would
malie your mother if you would become a
Christian I"

He stood silently a moment, digging the toe
of his boot deep in the sand ; then he looked
up, and shook As head.

" I can't," he said, sadly.

"Why not, Sam?"

" 0, 1 don't know. Pray don't ask me any
more questions." His seriousness was all gone
in an instant. I am tired of talkir y: about re-
ligion. Between you and mother, I think I
geii enough of it. Come,Lizzie,the8e seeds will
not be in the ground before night, if you don't
hurry."

1 did not remind him that he commenced the
conversation ; but thinking it over afterwards

1 could not but hope the Spirit of God was
striving in his heart.

THE LIGHT FROM A LITTLE GRAVE.

CHAPTER VII.

THB LIGHT FBOH A LITTU OBATl.

** Within the shrouded room below
He lies a cold— And yet we know

It la not Charley there !
It la not Cliarley odd and whltei
It Is the robe that In his flight

Be gently oast aside !
Our darllDg hath not died !
O rare still ilpe t O clouded eyes I

O violet eyes grown dim I
Ah w«ll I this little look of hair

Isallofblm!—
Is all of him that we can*keep,
For loving kisses, and the' thought
Of him and death may teach us more
Thau aU our life hath taught I"

A few weeks after mother moved to her new
home my little brother Johnny sickened and
died. He was seized at first with a slight
illness, scarcely noticed ; then came the flush
of fever, then alarming symptoms, misgivings,
forebodings, and at last the sinking of heart,
when hope gave way to the dreadful certainty
that the child must die. But tho young life
was strong within. Nature rallied all her
powers, fought every inch of ground with the
cruel enemy, and the struggle was terrible.

It was over at last. "0, dear, 0, dear!
Ask God to take away the pain," was his oft-
repeated cry through those days of anguish ;
and now our prayers were answered. He was
quite free from suffering. The tired head
rested on his mother's bosom, the laughing
black eyes — father's eyes — looked lovingly in
our faces. He was conscious and happy.

" There goes pussy," he said, with a smile,
watching his four-footed playfellow as she ran
across the floor. " Poor pussy, I never shall
play with you any more. 0, dear 1 1 did want
to grow up and be a man, and take care of
mother; but I guess Qod wants me most.
Baby Willie must hurry now,— mustn't he?
Now, Lizzie, sing ' Die no more.' "

I sang his favorite hymn, my voice never
once faltering. Qod gave me strength, I
know. When I finished, he nodded his head
approvingly, shaking back his hair in the old
saucy way. and presently fell asleep. While
we watched, expecting every breath to be his
last, he suddenly started up, and cried out, in
a quick, eager voice, " Mother I mother I there's
a place for you there," and died.

Dear Johnny I such a guileless little lamb I
The freshness and beauty of the early morn-
ing were his, but the dear Saviour loved him
too well to let the hot, midday sun beat upon
bis head. Beautiful, bright flowers grew in
his path — he never saw them wither and die 1
Eappy child I Tes, and happy mother I She
closed his eyes, laid his head gently back on
the pillow, and dropped upon her knees. I
know that, in one earnest prayer of consecra-
tion, at the bedside of her dead boy, she gave
her heart to Ghrist, making that place her
own which the dying lips so Joyfully pro-
claimed her Baviotir had prepared for her. I

know this ; for, though she never told me bo
in words, when she rose fiom her knees hei
face was radiant, and the peace of Qod, which
passeth all andentanding, was written on hei
brow. And when we laid him away in the
bed which is so strange a one for infant
sleepers, the same Icok was on her face. She
sorrowed, but not as one without hope. Dear
Johnny, thy work was done, and well done I
Thank Ood for the ligbt that shines upon as
from little graves I

My mother's strength of character showed
itaelf in her religion. Brave and self-reliant
she always was, determined and undaunted in
the fiice of great obstacles. Her love for her
children was her meat and drink. " 0, if I
could die fqr him I " she said to me that last
dreadful night of Johnny's sufferings; and
I knew the wish came from her heart of hearts.
That, she had no controversy with God, but
gave her idol back to Him with grief inex-
pressible, but without a murmur, was a sure
proof to me that her heart was changed. If
she was strong and brave before, how much
more so was she now, with the inspiration of
her new hope I

The evening of the faneral, as we all sat
sadly together at home, the air suddenly grew
dark, a clap of thunder shook the house, and
big drops began to fall. My sister Annie ran
from her pUce at the window, and, hiding
her head in mother's lap, sobbed out^ " 0,
mother, it rains on him 1 "

The thought of our timid, helpless baby,
cherished and folded in our love, so close ftom
every alarm, away from us, alone ; the an|^
thunder, the howling wind, the gloomy ceme-
tery, the lonely grave, the damp, heavy earth,
the nailed cofiQa, the clinging death garments,
the darkness, the horror, and the presence of
that dread conqueror, the worm, all this struck
a chill to my heart ; but my mother answered
cheerfully,—

" My darling, it will never rain on him again .
The thonder will never frighten him, the
tempest never beat on his heaid. Annie, your
brother is in heaven."

Dear mother I What a happy change it
was I The old bitterness of feeling that made
her fight angrily, through all those years, with
the adverse circumstances of her lot, often re-
jecting, in her pride, sympathy and aid from
her more prosperous neighbors, passed away,
and was succeeded by a cheerful, humble con-
tentment in her own surroundings, and a
large-hearted charity for others. What a joy
of heart this change brought to me will be
readily understood. For a long time I had
been my mother's rompanion. We seemed to
sustain this relationship to each other, rather
than that of mother and child, for my brothers
and sisters were mere infants ; and during onr
days of poverty and trial, when she found lit-
tle companionship in the society of her hus-
band, and was too proud to seek it out of the
house, she madls me her onlj counsellor and

THB FAMILT DOOTOAi

friead. I loved my mother with all the
strength of my heart. I remember that, when
a yery little girl, many a night I sobbed my-
self to sleep because she was not happy, though
I was too young to understand why. When I
trusted that I hfid given my heart to the
Saviour, it was the one great drawback to my
happiness that she, who hitherto had shared
with me every joy and sorrow, could not un-
derstand my feelings or sympathise in my joy.
She never opposed me in my religion. When
she found it made me happy, it seemed to
gratify her. She encouraged me to teach
hymns and passages of Scripture to my little
brother and sister, and listened well pleased
when they sang their pretty * Sunday-school
songs. These songs had been Johnny s delight ;
and in mouths past, when we sat together of
a Sabbath evening, to his oft-repeated request
of " Mother, sing too," she would sadly shake
her head, and turn away, that she might not
see the look of disappointment on his upturn-
ed face. Dear child I I think even then he
felt his mother's great need, and was groping
in a dim way to find that place for her that
to his bright, dying eyes was so clearly re-
vealed. They will sing together in heaven.

And now not one link was wanting in the
chain of love that bound my mother's heart
to mine. ur hopes, our joys, our aspirations,
were one. We held long, sweet talks toge-
ther on subjects which we had never mention-
ed to each other before. Together we read
our Bibles and knelt in prayer. O, how sweet
it was to walk to the house of Ood in com-
pany*h^d to see her sitting in the Sabbath
schuol, a humble learner nt the feet of Jesus I
Entering into her religion with all her
energy of character, my mother became a
working Christian, and, in her humble sphere,
labored faithfully in the Master's vineyard.

Now, indeed, my cup of happiness seemed
full ; yet another joy was In store for me.

I was returning in the twilight one May
evening, not mHuy weeks after Jobnny's dt^ath,
from a visit to his grave, when Frank Stanley
asked me to be his wife. We had known
each other from childhood. As long ago as
when we used to dig ovens in the sand toge
ther and roast apples and ears of com in them,
and build cubby houses and furnish them witb
bits of broken china, we .solemnly promised
to marry aR soon as ever we were grown.
And, I rem<*mbfr, in those days Frank sent
me a written declaration of his love, in im-
mense characters, covering half a sheet of
foolscap.

" 1 have loved you ever since I can remem-
ber," be said to-night, as we walked home from
Johnny 'd grave. *' For years I have had no
plan for the future with which you were not
connected. Liziie, will you be my wife ? "

Good and noble I knew him to be ; quick
in temper, but open and generous to a fault.
He waa a clerk in Mr. Barry's store, and more
than OBoe I heard hlh employer speak of his

strict integrity 4nd good business habittf
But Frank was not a Christian. While ac-
knowledging the claims of religion, and to
my appeals replying that he knew he ought
to attend to the subject, and that he fully in-
tended to do so at an early period, he yet put
it off from time to time, waiting for a more
convenient opportunity. His mother, a worthy
Christian woman, died when he was quite a
lad, but old enough to understand and remem-
ber the earnest prayers she offered for him on
her dying bed. He often spoke of these
prayeis to me, saying, in a half-trifling, half-
serious way, that if God answered the prayers
of faith he was sure to be converted. Perhaps
he rested his hope of salvation upon them,
feeling that God was under obligation to
stretch forth His hand and save him, with little
or no effort of his own. However this may be,
though his outward conduct was unexception-
able,he was living with no fixed religious prin-
ciple to guide him. Yet I was not afraid to
trust my happiness in his keeping. I had no
misgivings when I gave the promise he asked.
I placed my hand in his trustingly, confiding-
ly, and spoke the little word that made us
affianced lovers. And as we walked silently
homeward, our hearts too full for words, I was
a happy girl.

As we passed under an old apple tree that
grew by the roadside, a light breeze covered
us with the fragrant falling blossoms. In an
instant memory carried me back to the or-
chard behind Farmer Stanley's bam. Two
children sat side by side on the green grass
weaving garlands of apple blossoms. The
boy, bold, black-eyed, barefooted, and bare-
headed, stooped to fan, with his torn straw
hat, the hot cheeks of his companion, a lit-
tle bine-eyed girl, in a pink gingham sun-
bonnet.

0, that'perfnme-breathing May I 0, the fra-
grance of those blossoms, telliug of the beauty
of summer and the golden richness of au-
tum I

I wish I could stop here. I love to linger
in the sunshine of that luxurious home, peace-
ful, united, and prosperous ; in the new-found
happiness of a humbler abode, drawing its
ligfat from the glory that streams from a little
grave ; and in the joy of two young hearts who,
as yet, have known neither disappointment nor
change. I have no heart to leave this sunny
path and enter the shadow of the dark wood.
But I must tell my story.

CHAPTER Vni

TBB HEDIOINB — HOW IT WORKS.

"All babMs gather by unseen doRTPes
As brooks make rivei's, rivers run to seas."

I pa- s over two years, and take up the thread
of my story.

THK MBDIOINX— •now IT WObKS.

It was a bright Sabbath moniing in June.
Doors and windows stood open, and the air
was full of the perfume of the climbing roses
thnt covered the veranda. M7 mistress sat
in her room, in a large arm-chair, before the
dressing-iable. Her eyes were half closed,
and her hands folded listlessly on her lap.
8he had scarcely moved since I left her half an
hour before, after braiding her long hair.

Mr. Burry, in hia Sunday broadcloth, sat
r ading bis paper as "as his custom, and Sam,
in a uleau white suit, was perched on the
window-sill with a Testament in his hand.

He was blundering through his Sunday-
school lesson, and varying his employment
' by observations on what was passing outside.
I was butty in my own room, but the door was
open, and I h^tard all that passed.

'* ' And theie arose a great storm of wind
— ' There goes those Pease boys with their tin
pails. Now, if that ain't mean 1 They'll
have every strawberry on Btony Hill. Of
'course all the pleasant days come Sunday.
Where was I ^ 01 ' And there arose a great
storm of wind, and the waves beat into the
ship so that it — ' Father, did you tell Pat to
take Black Bess out this morning 7 She's
lame again in her nigh foot. 0, dear 1 I
never siiall tret this lesson. ' And there arose
a great Htorm.' No, I've said that. Lizzie,
come here a minute and look at Phil ; he's gut
on yellow kid gloves. There now, Pve lost
my place again. ' And he said unto the sea,
Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and
there was a great clam.' '

•< A what? '' said Mr. Barry, looking up
from hi paper.

" A clam, father ; a great clam,^^ said Sam,
innocently. " Why, no, it isn't either ; its
calm ; well, it looked just like clam, any-
how."

" Will that boy never learn to read ?" said
Mr. Barry.

" 0, deal- 1 what dull work it is I " said
Sam ; " I am sure I pity ministers ; I must go
and get a diink of water, for I am dry as forty
clams."

Ue cleared three stairs at a Jump, and broke
into a whistle when he reached the lower
hall.

There was silence for a few moments, and
then I heard Mr. Barry say, " Come, Clara, it
is time you were dressing for church ; the bell
tang half an hour ago."

She made some inaudible reply, and rose to
cross the room. In a moment I heard her fall.
Before I could reach her, her husband was at
her side.

" Clara, Clara, what is the matter ? Lizzie,
get the camphor quick. Don't you see she is
faint?"

Faint with that color on her cheek and

lips I But I humored his fancy to the utmost.

1 was in an agony to get him out of the way.

" Tell Pat to run quick for Dr. Sharpe Lizzie,

how slow jou are I Where is that camphor

bottle 7" Do yon think she oonld swallow
a little brandy?" In hia fright Mr. Barry
quite forgot to be dignified.

" If you please, sir," I said, " I think the
first thing to be done is to get her on the
bed." I tried hard to be quiet and self-pos-
Mssed ; but I was trembling from head to
foot, thongh witb>a different fear from Mr.
Barry's.

She opened her eyes as we laid her down,
but closed them again imme lately, murmur-
ing something, of which we only heard the
word " dizzy."

" Yes, that is it," said her husband ; I re-
member now she complain d of feeling dizzy
when she rose this morning. She tired her-
self out with that long nde yesterday. The
doctor will know what to do for her."

" 0, Mr. Barry,' I said hastily, — for his hand
was on the bell-rope—" will it be best to dis-
turb her now she is sleeping so comfortably ?
We can tell much better about her when she
wakes. It would alarm her very much to
find the doctor here. T really think there is
nothing serious the matter. I— 1 " He was
looking me full in the iejce now. " She has
b en so once before, sir."

' Been so bctfore ?" he said in surprise ;
" and why was I not told of it 7"

" You were out of town, sir, and she was
well again directly; and— and— she wished
me not to mention it, sir."

•'You did very wrong," said "Mr. Barry,
coldly. It was the first time I ever met his
disapproving eyes,and my own filled wMi tear# *
in spite of myself. >"

Looking back, now, I can see how *greatl7
I erred, what mistaken kindness it was in me
to conceal the tvuth from her l>est friend ; but
I was at my wit's end. To cover it up, to
guard her secret, to shield her, to watch her,
and keep every one away from her till she
was herself again-this was the one absorbing
purpose of my heart ; and to bring this about,
it seemed to me that all means were justifiable j
and so I deceived him

" It w&s nothing," I said, "a dizzy turn
occasioned by a disordered stomach, or a rush
of blood to thebeail,producing giddiness, such
as any one might have ; if he would trust
her with me, I would watch her carefully till
she woke, and I was sure she would be all
right to-morrow." This and much more to
the same purpose.

I was a poor dissembler. The eagerness
with which 1 spoke, and my trepidation of
manner, were anificieut in themselves to awa-
ken suspicion. But Mr. Barry was the mo8t
unobservant of men ; ho knew his wife confid-
ed in me, and sometimes relied upon my
Judgment in preference to her own ; and he
believed and trusted me. God forgive me for
lietraying that trust.

"Well, perhaps you are right," he said.
'* I have been dizzy myself sometimes, when
I was bilious , »ud then women have que«(

THX FAUILT DOCTOR.

i|»

aymptoms, that yon nerer can acconnt for. I
will wait till she wakea before I send for the
doctor."

He waa quieted and reassnred ; and when
the bell tolled for church, and she still slept,
he WM easily persuaded that there was no
necessity for his remaining at home. When
the door closed behind him, I once more
breathed freely, feeling that all immediate
danger of discovery was over ; and so I shut
out tiie fragrance and the sunshine of that
summer morning, and sat down to watch till
the *' dizzy turn " was over. Alas I it was not
the first time. Twice before, with trembling
hands, alone, I had half lifted, half dragged
her, lifeless and unconscious, to her bed, and,
locking the door, kept watch, keeping out all
intruders, till she woke, feverish and tremu-
lous, from her dreadful sleep. 0, my poor
mistress I

Long ago, when Dr. Sharpe first prescribed
for her a little stimulant to be taken every
day, and I used to prepare it for her, in the
delicate wine-glass, making it palatable with
loaf sugar and a sprinkling of nutmeg, she
would say,after drinking it with a little shud-
der, « What disagreeable stuff it is I How
can people learn to love it ?" It was not a
pleasant thought, sitting by her bedside that
Sabbath moming,looking at her flushed cheek,
and listening to her heavy breathing, that
from my hand she first received the poisonous
cup. Ood forgive me I I did it ignorantly.
I used to joke with her after a while about
getting bravely over her dislike for it ; and
when the habit grew, and she would some-
times say in the middle of the forenoon, " Liz*
zie, isn't it time for my Bourbon ?" I would
laugh gayly and utter some silly jest. I re-
joiced t J see her gaining every day, her step
elastic, and the fresh color coming to her
cheek. It was my hand that filled her decan-
ters from the cask in Mr. Barry's cellar mark-
ed *' Cbadwick's Best ; " and more than once
I placed the wicker-covered bottle in her
travelling-basket, stowing it safely with the
sandwiches and articles for the toilet, when
she started on a journey. Sitting by her bed-
/side that morning, I could have bitten the
hand that did such cruel deeds.

Fool that I was not to take the alarm ; not
to notice how faut the decanters were emp-
tie i ; how my visits to the cellar grew more
and more frequent ; how she felt " faint," or
"languid," or "nervous," or "chilly," many
times a day, cheating herself and me into the
belief that she needed "a little Bourbon I "
I do not remember what roused me to a sense
of her danger. I know, when the thought
first entered my mind, I drove it out as some-
thing monstrous. How one in humble life,
poor and uneducated, could become enslaveu
by a low appetite, I could, by sad experience,
well understand ; how one maddened by op-
pression, or in groat sorrow, might be tempt-
ed to find cooifort and oblivion in drink, I

could readily conceive ; but she, beautiful,
educated, refined, in her home of luxury, re-
moved from every care and sorrow,— the
thought waa inconceivable. I pat it away
from me ; I was angry with myself for admit-
ting it ; and when one day, Sam, sitting in his
favuri e position on the floor, with his head in
her lap, said " Mother, your breath to-day is
like old Huldy's," I could have beaten the boy
for speaking of the two in such a connection.
But the time came when I woke partially to
the truth. I did not realize the extent of her
danger ; bnt I knew enough to make me
wretched, I could not keep my secret long,
for every time she took the glass from my
hand my face betrayed me, and when she
questioned me I hinted to her my fears. She
waa not angry ; she treated the matter lightly,
called me a silly girl, and said I was making
a great fuss about a little thing. " How ridicu-
lous it was, to be sure I How angry Mr.
Barry would be if he knew I had hinted such ,
a thing I I was never to mention it to a soul,
would I promise 7" I gave my word, and the
secret was between us. But from that day
there was a shadow between us, too. It waa
not that she was less kind, for if possible
she was more so ; but I felt that she no longer
trusted me. Indeed I think we watched each
other. I was called upon less frequently to fill
her glass ; but the contents disappeared ra-
pidly, and I know she made errands iot me
down stairs, to get me out of the way.

At length, one morning, coming in from a
walk, I found her half lying, half sitting, with
closed eyes, in her chair. When I spoke she
tried to rouse herself, but slid softly down in
an insensible heap upon the floor. I flew to
.the door, and locked it, then lifted her, limp
and lifeless, to the bed. All that day I watch-
ed her, keeping erary one away, — this was not
difBicult, for Mr. Barry was out of town,— and
in the evening, when she was quite herself, I
knelt by her bedside and pleaded with her, for
the sake of her husband and her children, for
the sake of her dear baby in heaven, for tho
sake of her dear Saviour and her Qod, to break
up the dreadful habit. I appea ed with ail
the strength of language I could command
to her Christian principle. Love gave me
boldness of speech. If I could but rouse hot
to a sense of her danger, — if I could but lead
her to see how she was sinning against her
conscience and her Ood,— I cared not what
the consequences to me might be. But she
was not angry. She admitted the truth of all
I said. She did not treat it lightly this time.
She promised me with tears and sobs, that she
would try. But when I begged her to tell her
husband, that he might help her, the bare
idea terrified her.

" He does not dream of such a thing," she
said ; *' and I should die with shame to have
him know it. O Lizzie, the secret is between
you and me. Be my good friend and help me
to keep it."

THE MEDICINE — 1 OW IT WORKS.

After this appeal I would have died sooner
than betray her ; but wcu the secret between
uatwo?

Then I asked leave to put the decanter
awny ; and as I had heard it was injurious to
stop the babit suddenly, I proposed to deal out
small doses to her, giving her less and less
every day I felt ashamed to assume so much
authority ; but she agreed to it all, was as do-
cile as a child, and for a week I felt very hope-
ful. Then came a change. She was rtstless,
impatient, fretful, and the night before this
labt " dizzy turn " 1 saw by her face she had
been drinking. The decanter I knew she bad
not touched, but tbe cask was in the cellar,
and I doubted not she had drawn a supply for
herself.

0, what should I do I I walked the room
that Sabbath morning,— I could not sit still,
—wringing my bands in my distress. She
was no longer to be trusted, neither could I
caiTy the burden of the secret. Help must
come from tbe outside. Should I tell Mr.
Barry ? I thought of her pleading face, and his
BO stern and angry ; of her words, *' I should
die with shame to have him know it." So I
could not tell him.

The air of the room choked me. I threw
np the sash, and stepped out upon the veran-
da, carefully closing the blinds behind me.
Philip Barry stood on the gravel walk just be-
neath. He saw me, and it was too late to re-
treat, though my first impulse was to do so.
A petted and spoilt child, supplied with every
gratification that money could purchase, with
parents who doted upon him, and who were
strangely blind to his faults, it is no woider
that he grew up proud, selfish, and overbear-
ing. He was wild and dissipated, too, and
his course gave his father many anxious hours,
I know ; for though, in speaking to his wife,
he always made light of her fears, assuring
her that all young men of spirit mupt sow
their wild oats, and that the boy would sober
down fast enough, I heard him talking once
to Philip himself, in a very different strain ;
and I think he found a situation in a mercan-
tile house in the city for him, chiefly to take
him from his evil associates in the village.
He was exceedingly disagreeable to me ; and
as he was now spending a few weeks at home, I
was frequently much annoyed by his odious
attentions. " Hallo, Lizzie," he called to me
as soon as he saw me , "run and get your
bonnet, and take a ride. Black Bess is har-
nessed in the stable, and we have plenty
of time for a turn before the old folks get back
from church."

I would not condescend to tell him I was
watching by his sick mother, but answered,
coldly enough, that I did not care to go.
*' ]^o, of course not," he said ; " it is alwaTB

so when I ask you to go anywhere ; you tell a
diflerent story when youog Stanley's round.
Jim Barton's daughter is very particular what
company she keeps. I say," — for 1 had turned
my btfk to him, and was trying, with angry
baste, to undo the fastening of the blind and
get inside,— '* young S. got tight laut night
on lager b^r, and we cleaned him out hand-
somely in a couple of games of euchre. Ha,
hi I now he'll catch it." It needed but this.
I sat down on the carpet by Mrs. Barry's bed-
side and cried as if my heart would break. It
was not the first time I had heard of Frank in
a lager beer saloon. Was all tbe soriow I
knew in life to come from drink 7 A sigh from
Mrs. Barry recalled me. It was selfish to think
of my own troubles at such a time, and I went
back to my former train of thought.

Suddenly it occurred to me to go to Dr.
Sharpe. Why had I not thought of that be-
fore ? He was wise and skilful, and had al-
ready acquired a reputation in the community
for medical learning. He was the family
physician, and necessarily well acquainted
with the ways of the household. He was Mr.
Barry's intimate friend, thotigh there was
some rivalry between them regarding a State
office to which both aspired ; but it was in a
good-natured way, and did not interfere with
their friendship, If any one could help my
mi«itre8s, it was Dr. Sharpe ; and to the doctor
I resolved I would go, give him my confidenq^
and solicit his aid. But I did not like to
take this step without Mr. Barry's consent ;
and accordingly, after tea, when Mrs. Barry,
weak and languid, but quite herself again, sat
in her arm-chair by the open window, I took
occasion to speak with him alone. I asked
leave to call at the doctor's on my way nome ;
my Sabbath evenin>^8 I always spi^t with
my mother.

" I should like to tell him about Mrs. Barry,
if you please, sir," I said ; " she is nervou ,
and I think a visit from him would agitata
her ; but be ought to know, and I can describe
her symptoms perfectly,*"

Mr. Barry graciously assented. I think he
wished to make amends fur his severity to mo
in the morning.

When I went to my pleasant room to ar-
range my dress for the evening, everything
reminded me of Mrs. Barry's thoughtful kind-
ness. She placed the pretty vase on my table
that I might always have fresh flowers in my
room. The book of devotional poetry was
her gift, and my name, in her delicate hand-
writing, was on the title page. Even the shell
comb with which I confined my hair she gave
me. My dear mistress I I donned my mus-
lin dress, and tied in my hair the cherry ribbon
Frank Stanley loved to see me wear. How
could I meet him to-night 7

THI FAMILY DOOTOB.

•i

OHAPTEB IX.

TBI OBDBL LAUQB.

<< Do not Inanlt bumanlty ;
It ia a baibarous grossneat to lay ou
The weight of sooru, wben heavy misery
Too muon already v'et^bs men's fortones down."

DcuUeL

Dr. Sharpe sat in bis office chilr, his feet

on the sill of the open window. The room

looked Yery professional, with big books

"^ • scattered about, and a row of shelves against

the wall, full of gallipots and bottles.

He answered my timid knock by a lotid
u Oome in," and I stood before him.

" My name is Lizzie Barton," I said, for he
did not appear to recognize me. " You have
seen me at Mr. Barry's, sir."

" Tes, so I have," said the doctor. " I re-
member you now. They are all well, I trust,
at my friend Barry's."

" Mrs Barry is very unwell, sir."

"Ah," said the doctor; ** a suddeo attack.
I met her yesterday, and thought her looking
finely. I will step round directly."

" If yon please, doctor," I said, and stopped.
He had risen from his seat, and stood hat ip
hand. ** I think— I believe— in fact, they did
not send for you, sir," I stammered out. " They
do not know I am here, or at least Mrs. Barry
does not. I asked Mr. Barry's leave to con-
sult you, and — " I stopped again.

What is all this about ? " said Dr. Bharpe, a
little impatiently. "They want me, and
they don't want me ; they send you for mf ,
and they don't know you are here. I do not
imderstand. Will you please to explain
yourself? "

" Doctor," I said, desperation giving me
courage, " we are in great trouble, and I have
come toyouforhelp. If you will please to sit
down again, I will tell you about it Th>
medicine you prescribed for Mrs. Barry,"— I
could not bear to call it by name,—" which
seemed to do her so much good, is injuring
her very much."

"Medicine I What medicine, girl? "said
Dr. Sbarpe, staring as if he thought my wits
had forsaken me.

"The whiskey, sir — the Bourbon whis-
key."

" NoDsens9. Barry told me, not three days
■go, that he ascribed her recovery to the use
of stimulants."

" Doctor, bf 'itien not know. He thinks it
is all r!gb\^'. Sbi) has kept it from him. But
I am wiVb h : ~ .i<c time, and I know she is
in avnr 1 '■

" \',t J-.' ■'„ lnfc^n xu uar she likes it too
ws!l, i * i inf.i -'., >ie thaa is good for her?"
nid "•■. . lu., i>e.

I can. - c;o8t. v> l»': Jid, lowering my toice
almost to * « bister, uti a him that, not once,
or twice, but many times, I had seen her over-
come by liquor.

To my utter horror and indignation. Dr.

Sharpe leaned back in his chair, and laughed
heartily.

*• Well, well," he said, " tor a lady in the up*
per walk of society, that is going it pretty
strong, to be sure. There's a pill for Barry
to swallow. By George I if the story gets
round, it will tell on his votes in the county
next iall."

My presence was no check to his mirth. In
his intense enjoyment of the joke, I think he
forgot it altogether, or he thought me too in-
significant to be noticed. Through the inter-
view there was in his words and manner so
little of the professional dignity he usually
carried that he hardly seemed himself. 1
waited in burning indignation.

" Dr. Sharpe," I said at last, " I came to yon
in confidenee, and I appeal to you, as a man
of honor, not to reveal what I have told you
to-night. I supposed that, as a physician, and
as a friend of the family, I might with safety
ask you for counsel and help. I have put Mrs.
B«rry'3 good name in your hands. I am sure
you will never be so dishonorable as to betray
the trust."

" I beg your pardon," said Dr. Sharpe, sober-
ing instantly. " I am afraid I seemed rude.
The whole thing struck me in a ludicrous
light. I assure you I have the highest regaid
for Mr. Barry, and a great admiration for his
wife. I shall be happy to aid and counsel
them, to the best of my ability. Now, Misd
Lizzie, w.ll you tell me what I can do for
you?"

" If you will undo what has already been
done," I said, still in burning indignation,
« and cure that unhappy lady of a habit that
has become second nature to her, I will
try to forget the cruellest laugh I ever heard
in my life. Sir, she trusted and believed in
;ou. She called you her ' dear doctor,' her
' good fiiend.' She would have drunk a cup
of poison, iud you bidden her ; and it wa$
poison you gave her to drink."

The doctor flushed to his temples.

" From the account you give me," he said,
very stiffly, " I judge that my friend Mrs.
Barry is suffering from the excessive use, or
abuse, of a very good thing. I would counsel
her to great moderation. To Miss Lizzie Bar-
ton I would particularly counsel moderation
in language. Qood evening ; " and he bowed
me out of the office.

I walked away in the opposite direction
from my mother's house. I could not meet
her or Frank quite yet. I walked very fast,
trying to get away from my own reproachful
thoughts. Fool that I was to trust my secret
with thal^manl Gold and heartless as he had
just proved himself to be, what use might he
not make of it? J pictured him at bis
next wine-party, retailing it as a choice
joke to his political frieiids ; makini; capital
out of it, and using it to Mr. Barry's disadvan-
tage. I was wild »itb dis^ppoiutmeiit and
vexation. From force of habit, — for I did . ot

THK ORUICL LAUGH.

think where I was going,— I opened the gate
of the cemetery, and in a few minutes stood
by Johnny's grave. The Sabbath stillness
of tiie spot, and its hallowed associations,
quieted me directly. It was no place for
bitter, angry thoughts. One must needs be
forgiving at the grave of a little child. I
thought of our darling, his beautiful, sunny
life, and its peaceful end ; and how soon, for
all of us, the trials that seem so hard to bear
now would be over, and we, perhaps, from
our happy rest in heaven, looking baclc, would
wonder that such trifles could vex us. I spent
a profitable half hour at the little grave, and,
calmed and comforted, left the spot.

Outside the gate I met Frank, coming in
search of me. " Your mother began to feel
anxious,' he said, '* and think something had
happened at the l^arrys to detain you. I was
going up to see, but my good angel sent me
here first."

He was in g eat spirits, flushed and hand-
some after his rapid walk ; and so glad to see
me, and so happy in my society, that 1 shrank
from the task before me. Not noticing my
reserve, for a while he did all the talking.
He had good news, he said, to tell me. The
head clerk was about leaving, going to New
York on a higher salary, and Mr. Barry had
offered him the vacancy, with a large increase
of salary. Wasn't that good news ? His black
eyes danced and sparkled, and he threw his
cap in the air with boyiso glee. " But Lizzie, *
suddenly noticing my silence, "how sober
you are i You don't seem glad a bit."

** Frank, may I ask you a question ? "

" Of course you may, ' most grave and reve-
rend judge,' and then it will be my turn ; and
I will ask a question that will require an an-
swer on the spot."

" Frank, were yon at Turner's saloon last
night ? "

" Yes, I was in for an hour or two.
Why?"

" And did yon play cards with Phil Barry
and his set, a d lose all your money ?"

*' Pooh I I only had a little loose change in
my poclcet, not over two dollars. How did
yuu find all this out f "

*' Phil Barry told me this morning."

" Lizzie," said Frank, quickly, " if you
knew all that I know about Phil Barry, you
would never speak to him as long as you
live. He isn't fit for a decent woman to look
at."

" I never speak to him, if I can help it,
Frank. But why do you associate with such
a character ? "

" U, it is different in my case. I am obliged
to speak to him in the store every day. But
he is no fiivorite of mine, I assure you, and, I
suppose, he likes me less than ever now."

" Why, what have you done ? "

** Well, yon see, he helped himself to money
out of the drawer the other day, and I hap-
pened to see him. All we take goes to the

cashier's desk, you know, before it goes into
the drawer. So I knew that when the cash
account came to be balanced at night, there
would be just so much money missing. There
was only the boy and I in the store that day, '
and of course it would be laid to one of us.
So I stepped in to Mr. Barry and told what I
saw. Phil was mad: he cursed me up hill
and down. But he has got over it, or, at
least, he seemed good-natured last night."

" Frank, you premised me you never would
play for money again."

*< Well, that's a fact, Lizzie ; and I didn't
mean to. ButL you see, they got to treating
all round, and I felt happy over my improved
prospects, you know, and — well, the fact is, I
did take a little too much, and forgot myself.
Now, Lizzie, I am sorry, and I promise you
it shall be the last time. What more can I
say 7 0, you cross girl i do make it op with
me I I thought you would be so pleased at
my good luck, and we would be so happy to-
night I And now you spoil it all. I tell you
what, Lizzie, by and by you shall have it all
your own way. No fear of my going to Tur-
ner's, or anywhere else of an evening then.
But you can't think how dull it iB,these warm
nights, in a close little room in a boarding-
house I A young fellow, shut up in the store
all day, must have somewhere to spend liis
evenings. Of course, I am not defending my-
self for what happened last night. I ought
to have left the liquor alone, and the cards
too, for that matter. Lizzie, you will cure
all my bad habits for me— won't you ? "

" Frank," I said, " do you remember how,
more than a year ago, when yon first began
to go to the lager beer saloon, to play a quiet
game of cards, as you said, with the boys-
how I felt about it, what I feared, and bow
you promised me then to break away, not be>
cau^e you thought there was any danger,—
you laughed at the idea,<— but because I wish-
ed it, and you said you would do anything to
please me? Did you keep yonr promise?
And after the sleigh-ride, you remember what
happened then. I don't like to remind you of
it, or how angry and a.-hamed you felt the
next day ; but you remember bow, after that
d'sgraceful affair, you promised me never to
touch anything that would intoxicate again.
Was that promise kept? and is it likely I shall
have more influence with you by and by than
now?"

" Lizzie, you are as solemn as the day of
judgment, bringing up all a fellow's past sins.
Of course you will have more influence with
me by and by, when you are with me all the
time, than now. You have the moot extrava-
gant notions on this subject. You seem to
think if a young man steps into a saloon, now
and then, and takes a social glass with his
companions, he is on the high road to ruin.
You don't understand the usages of society.
Why, Lizzie, everybody drinks. There is hard-
ly A young man of my acquaintance who

THE FAMILY DOCTOR.

'!<

■pends M litilA money aa i for liquor. You
ought to see Phil Barry and his aot carry on.
You can't expect young men to hv old onei.
Everybody must sow their wild oat8,you know.
But, Lizzie, I do really mean to sober down,
and—"

" Frank, I bate used all the influence over
you I possess, to induce you to give up a habit
that has grown upon you very fkst. Last
night's experience is only one instance of my
failure. It is all folly to talk about my having
more influence over you by and by than now.
What you will not do for me now, you aie
not likely to do for me then. Frank, I dare
not trust my happiness in your hands { give
me back my promise."

''What?"

"Oive me back the piomise I made you
two years ago. I cannot be your wife."

*< Lizzie, yoa don't mean it I You cannot
mean it. You are vexed now ; but you will
think better of it After all these years, you
havit no right to throw me off in a sudden
freak."

" Fr nk, it is no sudden freaK. I told you
six months ago, you must ^ive up your iager
beer, or give up me."

" You knew 1 did not believe you. I never
thought you meant what you said. 0, Lizzie,
we have known each other so long 1 We have
been so happy together 1 "

fiis pleading eyes were fastened on my face,
and I turned away, that he might not see my
tears.

"If you loved me," he said, " you could not
give me up so easily." '

I think I never loved him half so well as
when he wronged me by the doubt ; but I did
not reply. We passed, just then, under the
shadow of the old apple tree which two years
before covered us with its blopsoms. No
blossoms fell on us to-night ; only a leaf or
two, prematurely withered, dropped at our
feet.

" Lizzie," said Frank, suddenly, " if I
thought Phil Barry—" and thsre he stopped.

"If you thought «hat, Frank?" I said,
gently.

" He takes a deal of trouble, it seems to me,
to inform you of my short-comint^s. You
would never have known of last night's affair
but for him."

" Would you have kept it from me,
Frank?"

" I should like to tell my own story," he
said, a little sulkily, " if it must be told at all."
Then suddenly gprasping my arm, while his
eyes fairly blazed in the twilight, he said.
«'Have you given me up for kimf Could
Lizzie Barton be tempted by that fellow's
money?"

I scomrdto answer such a charge.

« No." he said, " it cannot be. And yet it
is a strange reason for a girl with your past
history to give."

u Frank, this fhim you I It is my know-

ledge of the past," I said, gently, " that makes
me timid for the fiiture. It is because one
far more worthy of a happy lot than I am,
trusted just such promises aa you have made
me to-night, and was bitterly disappointed,
that I ask to be released from mine."
Something in this reply stung him
" If this is your trust and confidence in me,*'
he replied, his voice trembling with passion,
" it is time we parted. Take back your pro-
mise, you false, cruel girl I You might have
saved me. God knows I loved you well
enough to be anything you wished ; but you
have made a desperate man of me to-night."

He flung my arm from him, and left me
standing alone in the darkness.

CHAPTER X.

BLOOO.

" True is that wtailom tbat Rood poet saia,
That gentle mind by gentle deed is known ;
For man by nothing Is so well bf wrayed
JkB hy hlB maDoerR, in which plain is shown
Of what degree and what r..ce he is srown."

Spenter.
" Bven to the dellojoy of their bands
There wan resemblanoe, such as true blood
wears."

Bvron.

The next morning, after breakfast, I found
Huldah in the kitchen.

" Where's your eelder buds, and alder buds,
and all the rest?" said Sam, for she came
empty-handed.

" I left 'em down to Miss Isham's, to make
yarb tea," said Huldah.

"Is Mistress Isham sick?" inquired Brid-
get

" That poor cretur,*' said Huldah, " is in sich
a condition that she despises herself in her
own and everybody's company."

<• Och, an' what ails her ? "

" Narves," said Huldah.

Bridget's honest face bore so puzzled a
look, tbat Huldah repeated, in a higher key,
" Narves."

Bridget suggested pain-killer.

" That are doctor, " said Huldah, condescend-
ing to explain, " he calls it neuraligy, or some
sich name ; but I call it narves. What with a
jumpin'an' twitchin' in her jaw, an' a whizzia'
inside of her bead, an' a scringin' in her ear,
an' the cold chills runnin' up an' down her
back, an' a mizry all over, she's the distressed-
est cretur I ever did ieo,"

"How did she catch it ? " said Sam.

" Waitin' an' tendin,' an' contrivin' , " said
Huldah. " Land I to see them five young 'uns
o* hern, so nigh of an age yer can't tell whioh's
the youngest, racketin' all over the house, up
chamber an' down cellar, straddlin' the sofy,
an' makin' horses of the keepin-ioom cheers,
and Bcaldiu' themselves with the tea-kettle,
an' cattin' up all manner o' shines, an' that
poor soul on the tight Jump arter 'em the haU

BLOOD.

day, if it aia't enough to gin the neunligy an'
all the other aligies, I'm beat The wonder is
•he ain't dead long ago. Set I to her, ' Mis'
bham,' sez I, ' I hope, when you git to heaven,
there won't be a young 'an within forty milee
of yer.' 'Law, Huldy,' sez she, 'I don't know
as I care about goin' to heaven right away,
when I die. If the Lord's willin ' , sez that
poor wom-ont soul, sez she, ' I should liiie to
lay in the grave a hundred years or so, an' git
rested.' It's my opinion," said Huldah, "an'
I've been a-thinkin' about it considurble late-
ly, that wimmin suffer for all their sins in this
ere present life, an' will have an easy time on't
in the day o' Judgment."

She followed me when I left the room.

« How's Mis' Barry ?" she asked.

" Better, " I replied, and tried to pass, for
I felt that I must cry, if I was looked at or
spoken to that Monday morning.

She eyed me keenly firom under her heavy
brows.

" She's wuss," she said ; then pushing me,
though not roughly, into a little room at the
end of the hall, she closed the door, and plant-
ing herself before it, said,'^

"Now, you Barton gal, tell me the hull
■tory. Ter needn't look so scart ; I've known
about it tiiese six months ; there now," said
Huldah, thoroughly disgusted, "if she ain't
a-goin' to cry ! what babies wimuin be I Here,
you set down in this ere cheer, an' have a good
spell on't, an' then mebbe you'll act like a
rational crittur."

I availed myself of the permission so an-
graciously given. Since my interview with
Frank, the previous evening, I felt utterly
friendless and forlorn ; and now the certainty
that this vagrant woman had possessed her-
self of the secret I hoped was known only to
Dr. Sharpe and myself filled me with anguish
and shame. Huldah stood quietly by till the
paroxysm was over. I think once or twice
her hand rested on my bowed head with no
ungentle touch.

" Now you are all right," she said, when I
looked up, half ashamed, and tried to smile.

" When a woman gits hystreeky there ain't
no use holdin' on't in an ' chokin' on't down.
Hystreeks is like measles, wuss inside than
out. 'Qin 'em plenty o' sarfon tea,' see I to
Mis' Isbam, when her yoan< 'uns was comin'
down with 'em, 'au' fetch 'em out., An' so,
when I see that pore crotur, clear tuckered out
with housework an' babies, goin' round th'
kitchen, keepin' her mouth sbet tight, an' every
now an' th»-n swallerin' a big lump in her
throat, * Mis' Isham,' sez I, ' boiler it right out,
an' make an' eend on't.' An' I never said them
words to her but she bust right out a cryin',
as yon did jest now, an' it done her good. An'
I've a notion, " said Huldah, making a person-
al application of her subject, " that it's what
you'd better do with thi« ere load o' trouble

Jou've been luggin' round inside o* yer for a.
)Dg spell back. Come, talk it out, gal."

u Huldah,', I said, " what did yoa mean Jast
now, when you said you knew about it six
months ago ? '

" Well, child, last fall, when I was chorin*
round, I went in one day to ax Mis' Barry what
I should do with that big bag o^ feathers in the
wood-shed chamber. I opened the door kind-
er sudding, an' she was a-lyin' on the bed, an'
I see her chuck a big bottle ander the piller ;
an' if ever I smelt whiskey I smelt it in that
are room. Well, it sot me watchin' , and arter
that I see a plenty."

" Do yoa think any one else suspects it,
Huldah r

" Child, you can't cork up lightnin'. One
day I was goin' round the back side o' the
house, jest as two ladies was o-comin' out o'
the front door ; one on 'em was that Clair wo-
man , I didn't know t'other one. Mis' Barry,
■he was a>waitin' on 'em oat, an' she stood in
the door, not quiet an' genteel like as she used
to be, but bowin' an' smilin' , an' her tongue
a-runnin' like a mill-wheel. Well, when their
backs was tamed to her. I see that Clair wo-
man puUin' faces an' winkin' at t'other one."

" Huldah, what shall we do ? "

"Well, I don't reckon there's much to be
done . She's got to that pint when she can't
no more stop than you can live without eatin'
You see," said Huldah, mysteriously — "it's
blood!"

"What do yoa mean, Huldah? She be-
longs to one of the first families in the State
of Connecticut "

" Good land I child, you can't tell nothin'
'bout Clary Hopkins^s family. I knew Square
Hopkins long afore you was born ; an the old
mi^or, his father, died four years arter I come
from York btate. They was both good men,
but they was high livers. Many's the cask o'
wine an' French brandy I'tc seen carted down
the old major's cellar. Them men both died
afore they was sixty year old. Apoplexy the
doctors called it. I called it rum fits. The
Hopkinses was all jes so ; it runs in the family.
No danger t'other side o the house," said
Huldah. with a toss of her bead ; " them keer-
ful, cola-blooded, money-gittin' folks ain't no
call to be tempted. It's the free, open-hauded,
fond o' good livln' aa' good company kind,
that stands a chance to go wrong. He won't
never take to drinkin'. "

There was an ander-tone of contempt in
Huldah's language whenever she spoke of
Mr. Barry, ^ud of her patron's family, she
could never quite foigive her husbaao for
being a self-made man, raising himself from
homble life to the high position he now held
in the community. "You kin tell a bom
gentlflmant " said Huldah, " if yoa luid him in
a pigHrty, an' dressed in bias cotton home-
spun, 'cans what Natur* does, she does sure ;
bat livin' in a grand house, an' wearin' broad-
cloth, an' stiokin' a diamond pin in yer shirt
buuum, dont make yer a gentleman —does
it ? What yer ain't got yer can't git, and yer ^

1 f

» JUK ' """

THl FAUILT DOCTOR.

oftn't make « whistlo out of • pig's tall."
This bjr tho way.

*'2/« won't never take to drinkin'," said
Haldah ; *^ But soon's ever I Bmelt wliiskey ia
Mis' Barry's obaml)er, and see lier cliuck tliat
buttle out o' sight, sea I to myself, ' Clary Hop-
kins,' ses 1, you are in a dretful bad way.
That old Hopkins blood o' youm'll be the
death on yer yit. * The Loid visita the ini-
quities of the fathers upon the children to the
third and fourth generation.' Why, child,
I've seen tlie dretfulest sins handed down in
good, reipectable families. I knew a woman
out in York State that was light-fingered when
she was young ; but she got convarted in a
camp-meetln' an' jined the Church, an' there
waru't a nicer woman anywhere round Well,
she married an eider in the church, an' they
went down to Orange County to live ; but the
ouly child they ever had would steal every-
thing she could lay her hands on. She begun,
I was goin' to say, afore she could run aloue ;
leastways, by the time she was two year old
she began to steal candy out of her mother's
drawer, an' pick up odd pennies round the
house. It nigh about broke her mother's heart,
for she kep' a-growin' wuss an' wuss, yor see,
an' it didn't do no manner o' good to whip
ber, or to shet her up and keep her on
bread an' water. 'Cans' why ? 'Twas blood.
Well, she grew up a tall, harnsome-lookin'
gal, an' she married a rich man down in Utiky,
an' he gin her everything heart could wish ;
but lawl i didn't make no dlHerenoe, for
every once in a while he had to go round to
the shops pavin' bills to the marchants for
things bis wife stole ; for they got to know
her habits so well, yer see, they used to watch
her Boon's ever she come into the shop, an'
whatever she'd chuck away they'd clap it down
on paper, an' her husband he'd foot the bill.
An' that crittur couldn't help it no more'n you
can help eatin' when yer hungry. 'Caus' why?
'twas blood."

" But Mrs. Barry did not like the taste of
liquor at first,'* I said. "She really had to
learn to love it."

" Now that's the wuss thing about it, " said
Huldah ; « that woman might a' gone all her
life an' ueter found out the hankerin' she had
inside on her. Twas there, yer see, kinder
sieepin, like ; an' if it hadn't got roused up, it
never would a' pestered her in the world.
'Tyraa/eedM otit did the mitchUf. It makes
me think of a story father used to tell,

" There was a feller up in Herkimer County
come across a wildcat's den, vray up on the
mounting, one day ; an' what does he, do
bjt fetch one o' the cubs home for a play-
thing for his young 'uns ? He kep' it till 'twas
grown, feedin' it jes as he would a common
cat. Twas the gentlest, sleekest, purtiest
crittur. To see it playin' round the house,
rollin' f>ver an' over, a frolickiu' with them
children, an' aotilly sieepin' with the baby in
(be cradle, yer wouldn't a'thought it bad any

teeth or claws. But one day, when they wai
a'slaughterin' , one o* the children gin itahunk
o' raw meat. That crittur got a taste o' blosd,
Then, sez I, look out fur the natur' o' th(
beast. No more purrin, or foolin' an' frol-
ickin' on the floor with the children All the
old mother wildcat, hid away inside there so
long, woke right up, and there was a fierce,
savage crittur out o the woods ready to teai
an' to eat. 'TVm feedi 'on't did the mite hit/.
An' that are doctor when he told Clary Hop.
kins to drink whiskey every dav, he fed a
crittur inside of her wuss' a wildcat out o'
the woods ready to bite an' to tear. Hn didn't
do a very nharv thing that time. Hharpl"
said Huldah, shaking her fist; *'I'll sharp
him I"

" What ought I to do, Huldah?"

"It's plain enough to see her ought to tell
him." Bhe meant Mr. Barrv. " Eow in the
world, if the man had his wits about him, he
could help finding it out long ago, I don't
see."

" He is away from home half the time, you
know, and when he is here, hh mind is on his
business, and besides, lately, she has been very
— " all/, I was going to say ; but I did not like
to apply the word to my mistress

" Yes, I understand, " said Huldah, with a
knowing look ; " they aller-. be. Liquor kind-
er twists a body's conscience round, an' thef
git to cheatin' their best friends, an' doin'
things in a ('retful sly, underhanded kind of a
way."

No one would suspect from her words t at
Huldah be ongcd to the class she referred to
as "they;" but during this interview, the
small room was filled with the fumes of the
gin she had drank that morning. Up to a
certain point, liquor sharpened bee intellect
and increased her physical strength. Balf an
hour after, 1 found her scrubbing away in the
midst of an ocean of soap suds, and Sam throw-
ing old shoes at her across the waste of waters.

CHAPTEB XI.

TBI DISOOTIBY.

« Yle stood
Pierced hy oevere amRZPment, bating life,
Bpeecliless and fixed iu all the death of woe."

Thonuoitt

An hour later, as I sat with my mistress, the
front door slammed violently, and some one
came upstairs with a quick uneven step. It
was so unlike Mr. Barry's usual dignified, de-
liberate way, that I could not think it was he,
till he opened the door of bis wife's room.
His usually florid face wai white to the lips.
In a peremptory tone he ordered me to leave
the room, and stamped his foot impatiently,
as I delayt'd a moment to gather up my sew-
ing matijiiala. One quick glance I gave my

TUB DISOOVlRir.

at
to

the
the

a
illect

the
one
It
de-
he,
om.

atistrosfl. She looked ready to faint, and was
holding up both trembling hands a* though
warding off a blow.

I kept within sound of the bell, which I
knew he would ring for me by and by, and
the half hour that followed was agony. It
seemed to me that I could not wait, but must
break in upon this dreadful interview ; and
yet, when at length tho bell rang with a quick,
angry clang, I almost crept up stairs, and lin-
gered with my hand on the door-knob. Then
I heard a sound of distress within, and sprang
to the bedside. Mrs. Barry's face was buried
in the pillows, and she was crying and laugh-
ing In the same breath. Mr. Barry left the
room without a word.

" Lizzie," she cried, when the hysterical
paroxysm was over ; " he knows it all ; Dr.
Hharpe has told him : what shall I do? what
■ball I do?"

I was quite prepared for this revelation, and
relieved to hear that it was over. She did not
ask how Dr. Sharpe found out the secret. In
t)er agitation sho nevor thought cf it ; but her
terror at her husband's anger, ber shame and
self-reproach, and her utter want of resolution
and strength of purpose, and the despair with
which she spoke of herself, were very sad to
witness. For a while she would listen to
nothing I said to her ; bat as she grew calm, I
sat by her bedside, and determined to add my
appeal to her husbiEind's.

" Mrs. Barry," I said, " I am glad your hus-
band knows it all."
She looked at me in astonishment.
" i believe, if you will lean on his strength,
and trust to him fully," said I, « that, with the
help of d, he will save you. You and I
have tried, and failed utterly. We are two
weak women, and this dreadful habit is too
strong for us ; but Mr. Barry is resolute and
determined ; people say he never fails in wha'
he undertakes to do. Mrs. Barry, it is a
good thing for him to know it al ."

«' He was fearfully angry," she said ; " he
pities and despises me ;" and she fell ta shud-
dering and sobbing again.

" But he loves you ; he would give his life
to save you. Mrs. Barry, do try and listen to
me ; " for she was growing hysterical again.
"I have seen you so strong aud self-reliant
before I O, where is your courage now ?
Have you thought how, if this goes on, it must
end ? how impossible it will be to keep the
secret much longer in the bosom of jour own
family ? Are you willing to have your name
bandied about, from mouth to mouth, through
the town? Will yon bring such a dreadful
disgrace upon your husband 7 Will you have
H said to your sons, as they grow up to man-
hood, that their mother is a—"

"Slop!" said Mrs. Barry; "girl, you will
drive me mad. ' Have I thought how this
will end 7 ' Tes, I hava thought how it will
end. I look forward, and this is what I see :
07 hTuband's name dishonored, and bis bitter,

burning indignation ; my children ashamed to
call me mother ; the grief of friends ; the seem
and indignation of the world ; my own heart
filled with an anguish of remorse that no
words oai) utter and no other soul feel ; my
utter ruin on earth, and hell's gates wide open
before me, for Qod has written my sentence
with His own hand—' No drunkard shall in-
herit the kingdom of Qod.' This is what I
see."

" And seeing all this," I said, " can you
keep on ? Dare you pursue a course that will
bring such ruin upon yourself and those
nearest and dearest to vou ? Mrs. Barry,
if yon love your husband and children, if yoo
love the memory of your sweet baby and hope
to meet her in heaven, if you love your own
soul, if you fear Ood's everlasting wrath, if
you hate hell and long for heaven, in Ood's
name stop."

" I cannot," said this wretched woman ; " I
would lay down my life, I would die chopped
in pieces, for salvation from this. I resolve
and re-resolve. I rise and fall, and rise only
to fall again, every time a little lower, and
with keener anguish and bitterness of soul.
I go without a little while, and there comes a
dreadful gnawing and burning that is insup-
portable. I know it is killing me, body and
soul ; but I mutt hatu it."

I thought of the roused demon of drink
within her, her cruel inheritance, the curse
that came to her through her proud old
father's blood. What atonement could his
money and his lands make for this? I thought
how Huldah had likened it to a savage wild
beast, a live creature with claws, digging into
her heart, tearing at her vitals, and raging for
her life-blood.

" Pray Mrs. Barry," I said. " 0, pray, a«
yon never prayed before, for deliverance, for
strength to overcome this dreadful tempta-
tion ; fight it as you would fight the deadliest
sin ; for I believe the great adversary of souls
is seeking to destroy you forever. You are
not tempted of man, and only God can help
you ; and He mil help you. Mrs. Barry, my
dear mistress, my kind frieni, do not be an-
gry with me ; let me plead with you I know
you are a Christian. I have seen your faith in
Qod, your love for your Saviour, your beautiful,
consisteniL Christian life, these years that I
have lived with you. Will you give all this
up, lose the sweet comfort of your relijon,
and go down to your grave in despair? Fly
to Ood, and He will save you."

<< It IS too late 1 " She cried. " O, it is too
late I I wish I had never been bom."

I left her with these words of despair upon
her lips, for there came a summons to me
from Mr Barry.

He was waiting to speak with me in the
library, and I went to him with trembling
steps. I knew he was a stem, proud man,
strong, self-reliant, and unyielding; that he
exacted prompt and full obedience itom all

Tir

TH2 fAMtLT DOOTOft.

^:l!

under his aathorlty, uid wm a good muter to
tboee who did their datj, bat relentleaely
Mvere to delinquents. I Iwew this ; but not
from ezperien(!i), for in hia intercourse with
his fsmify these peoull«rities did not appear.
Onoe or twice I heard him speali; sternly to
his eldest son ; but his reboltes were mild in
proportion to the offence. To me, as his
wife's attendant and humble fHend, he was
uniformly kind, and, I think, likra to see
me with her.

When I entered thv room, he stood resting
one hand on the table. Piide, anger, and
shame were strnggling in his face. He fixed
his eye sternly upon me for a moment before
he spoke.

" Do you know why I hare sent for you 7 "
lie said.

1 tried to speak, but the words died on my
lips.

" I shall not reproach you, young woman,"
be said. "I think your conscience will do
that without ray help. I will only say, that
if what I have learned on the street to-day
had been told me, months ago, by a member
of my family, from whom I hiwi a right to ex-
pect tliat amount of confidence, my task and
your self-reproach would be lighter to-day.
Your motive for all this concealment I do not
pretend to fatliom. Tour course of duplicity
and deceit — "

•'0 Mr. Barry," I cried, **hear me one
moment." Hia cruel words cut me to the
heart.

" Be still," he said ; <* I want no excuses or
extenuations. Facts speak for themselves.
Only yesterday you deliberately deceived me.
Young woman, I never forgive deceit. My
first thought was to send you away in disgrace,
for you have abused the trust reposed in you,
and forfeited all claim to my confidence. But
your mistress has pleaded for you, and your
good conduct in all other particulars I have
taken into consideration, and I will give you
the opportunity to atone, in some measure, by
faithfulness in the future, for your errors in
the past. Don't interrupt me. I can Judge
of your penitence by the manner in which you
petform the service I shall require of you."

He spoke like a master to his slave. His
words were cruel, but his stem, relentless face,
and his cold, bitter tone, were worse to bear.
In the midst of my self-reproach, I felt that
be was unjust to me ; but I was much too sad
to speak otherwise than humbly.

<' Mr Barry," I said, " if yon will listen to me
one moment, I will promise not to try to ex-
cuse myself. Ton shall think as badly of me
•lyouplease, only this I must say: However
ranch I may have forfeited your confidence,
and merited your displeasure, never, for one
moment, have I faltered in my love to the

dearest, the kindest mistress in the world.
sir, I have tried to serve her faithfully. I do
love her with ail my heart I " My voice flUter-
ed, but I determineid I would not break down.
" Let me stay with her ; don't send me away
while she is so unhappy. Tell me what I
can do for her and see how hard I will try to
serve her. Mr. Barry, you will believe and
trust me so far?"

•* And if I do," he said, coldly, '< what pledge
can you give me that I may rely on you for
the ftiture T How do I know but these promis-
es you make so freely are only the hypocriti-
cal cover to a farther course of concealment
and deceit?"

I felt my cheeks bum, and, for the first
time during the interview, I was in danger of
forgetting myself. He waited a moment for
me to speak, and then oonUnued : —

" As the first proof of your sincerity," he
said, "I wish yon to give me the history of
this unhappy affair from the commencement.
Remember, no excuses, no extenuations, but
the plain, simple narrative." He motioned
me to be seated,— we were both standing all
this time— and took his own chair opposite
me.

It was not an easy story to tell. I hesitated,
and my voice faltered more than once ; but I
concealed nothing. I described briefly, but as
vividly as I could, the power this appetite had
gained over her, and her seeming helplessness
in its grasp. I did not raise my eyes to his
face while I was speaking, and he heard me
si'ently to the end. Wben I had finished,
tbere were signs of emotion in his face.

" Tou love her," he said, almost kindly,
** and you want to save her— do you not ?"

« Mr. Barry, I love her with all my heart.
If you will tell me what I can do to save
her—" The tears I had kept back through this
interview flowed ft-eely.

" I will," he said. " What she has not re-
solution to do for herself must be done for
her. We will watch her, night and day, and
see that not one drdp of liquor passes her lips.
It must be kept from her entirely."

•< It wUl be impossible, sir," I said, « while
there it so much of it in the house."

'< I will take care of that," he said. "All
in the cellar shall be removed; ant do you
search every nook and corner, and break
every bottle of it you find. And listen to no
pleadings, or tears, or commands. Bemember
that you will serve your mistress best by serv-
ing n- "

That afternoon hundreds of bottles of choice
Catawba wine were transported to Mr. Barry's
warehouse; and some one— by accident,
oo.rse — leaving the bung of the cask loc
what remained of "Chad wick's Ims^ delug(
the oellar floor.

fROH TDl MANSION TO TUB STRUT.

CHAfTEB XII.

»BOW TBI MAMBIOR TO TBI BTRIIT.

*8b« ral«ed b«r from the oauld, cauld grouDd.
U dule and wae In me I
Thai 1 have ray dfsr ladl* found
tlae lad a ilgbt to see." ^. . „ .. .

—Old BalUid.

A f«w days after the erenta narrated in the
last chapter, as I itood at the window of Mn.
Barry's room, Sam called to me from over the
garden hedge : —

" LiEsie, come down here ; I want 70a to
help me a few minutes."

I shook mj head.

*' Tes, you must come. I am going to turf
mother's verbena bed, and I want you to hold
the measuring-line. Gome; it won't take
five minutes."

" Some other time, Sam."

•< ' Some other time! *" he repeated, "Tes,
It's always some other ti oe, now, when I ask
Ton to do anything. You used to come and
help me when I needed you." He turned
away with a disappointed face.

** Lizzie," called Bridget, from the pantry, a
few minutes later, when I entered the kitchen
on a hurried errand, "will ye stir up the
flummery pnddin' for me, the masther likes
wid his dinner? Sure I must git me pies in
while the oven is in bakin' hate."

" I am sorry, Bridget, but I cannot spare the
time. Mrs. Barry needs me this morning."

Bridget muttered something about its being
the will, and not the time, I wanted.

It was hard to refuse these trifling requests
to those under the same roof who were con-
tinually showing me kindness, a' d wboes
good-will I desired to retain. It was hard to
be misunderstood, and thought selfish and
disobliging ; but my promise to Mr. Barry ne-
cessitated my remaining constantly with my
mistress ; and as I could not explain this to
them, and heretofore could find plenty of time
to help Bridget in the kitoben, Katy in the
dining-room, and Sam in the garden, it was
no wonder this sudden change excited their
astonishment and displeasure.

But it was hardest of all to b3 looked upon
with suspicion and dislike by one whom I
tenderly loved. It could not be helped, for
it had come to this : Mrs. Barry was a prison-
er in her own house, and I was her jailer.

I cherished the hope that, under the stimu-
lus of her husband's displeasure, and firm re-
< solution to cure her, she would rouse herself,
make common cause with us, and help to
break the chain that bound her ; but I soon
. fonnd it must be a hand-to-hand fight, her
cunning and artifioe matohed against our vigi-
lance. And what a change the degrading
habit made in the once noble, high-minded,
Christian woman I She stooped to low tricks
and conning deceptions to elude and oiroum-
Tent me, and made my task, not only exceed-

ingly difficult, but humiliating and painfuL
She suffered dreadfully. The hungry, savage
creature within was awake, and tearing her.
Her haggard face and parched, burning lips
told of the raging fever. She would walk the
fioor iv V hours, moaning, crying, and b«igging
for drink ) then, uttorly exhausted, lie down
and sleep, only to cry out, in her aroams, for
the poison she craved. I used to try to in-
spire her with the hope that this fierce appetite,
ungratifled, would, after a while, wear itself
out. But she felt no such hope. " It is too
Late," she said. " Why will you torment me 7
It will kill me, sooner or later ; but you are
killing me by a hundred deaths."

It was my trial) to bear these reproaches
in a measure, alone. The fear she felt for
her hus'iand restrained her in his presence,
and deceived him in regard to her condition.
Often, after a day of distresR, she would ap-
pear so composed, during the hour of the
evening he spent with her, that, in our private
interview at the close of the day, - for it came
to be a settled thing for me to go to him every
night to the library, and report progresH, — he
would think her doing well, wb«<n 1 know to
the contrary. It was not in Mr. Bany'H nature
to appreciate his wife's sufferingg. How
could he, with his perfectly healthy organiza-
tion, his cool, phlegmatic temperament, his
clear head, his iron will, understand a crea-
ture all sensibility and nerve, all excitement
and passion, the very charm of her woman-
hood constituting her weaknesH and her liabi-
lity to sin 7 He spoke with scorn of a mere
bodily appetite gaining such power over a
rational creature. If, by any possibility, he
had fallen under the iuiluence of such a habit, I
doubt not he would have plucked it up by the
roots as promptly and unflinchingly as I once
saw him plunge his knife deep into his own
quivering flesh, when he was bitten by a dog
suspected of being mad. He pitied his wife ;
but there was contempt mingled with his pity,
and a strong determination to crush the weak-
ness out of her. She understood this, and hid
from him all that she could.

It was one of the sad resulto of this habit
that it separated Mrs. Barry from her family.
As she yielded more and more to its influence,
she lost all relish for social and domestic joyg.
To be left alone, and sit dozing in her chair,
or sometimes to lie all day upon her bed,
stupid from the effect of the liquor she drank,
pleaf ed her best. During the first happy year
I spent under her roof, " mother's room " was
the gathering-place for the family. Thither
of an evening Mr. Barry brought his news-
paper, Sam his whittling utensils ; and even
Philip, occasionally, laid aside his cigar, and
gave up his usual visit to Turner's, that he
might spend a little time with his invalid
iqpther.

But, most of all, Sam availed himself of
this privilege. Half the time out ot school
he spent In his mother's room. There wM

THE FAMILY DOCTOft.

•iii

perfect confidence between these two. She
was acquainted with ail his daring exploits
and liair-breadth escapen, and condeied with
him over his injuries ; for Sam was always
bruising his shins, or stubbing his toes, or
falling from haymows and apple trees, and
could generally exhibit bruises in all colors
of the rainbow upon various parts of his per-
son. He told her of all his Hcrapenat school,
his quarrels with the boys, and his frequent
Reasons of disgrace with his teachers, — he was
a great dunce at hip books, and this good
mother listened with the deepest attention,
pitying and soothing, or gently counselling
and reprimanding, as the case required. I
know in those days she often endured his
loud voice and boisterous ways when sha
greatly needed quiet and repose ; but she never
complained. " No, let him stay," she would
say, whfn sometimes, in pity to her, I suggest-
ed sending him out of doors. "I know he is
safe when he is with me.'

Hut those happy days passed away ; and oc-
casional ly, when 8am came rushing up stairs,
after school, I was sent to the door to tell him
that "mother *as lying down, and could not
be disturbed," or " mother's head ached, and
h? must play out of doors." It grieved me at
these times to see his disappointed face ; but
it grieved me still more, when these excuses
came to be habitui i, and he met with frequent
rebuffs, to notice ho he came less and less
frequently to his mother's door, but wandered
away by himself in the fields, or played wi h
rude boys in the streets.

Once w en he was admitted, and she sat
with half-closed eyes, listless and inattentive,
the boy stopped short in the middle of a story,
and said, '< Mother, I am not going to tell you
the rest ; for you don't care a bit." After this
she excluded him more than ever. I think
his presence was a reproach to her ; that it
awakened in her breast a doll consciousness
of neglected duty ; that she felt guilty at the
sight of her child. Bat this was not all.
There were times when the door must be clos-
ed against him ; when his mother's naconsci-
ous form, stretched upon the bed in drunken
slumber, must be hidden from' the eyes of her
innocent child. Alas, that I have such things
to write of this once noble, conscientious,
Christian woman !

Sam came in from school one day with a
black eye. He called to me from the foot of
the stairs, and when I went down to him, he
asked ma to go to the kitchen and get him a
piece of raw beefiteak. " Ton see, Lizzif>, I
would go nyself, only Bridget is a little put
oat with me just now. The fact is," said Sam,
oonfldentislly, and with a half-comical, half-
ashamed expression on his face, *' I pinned he-
dlsh-oloth to the skirt of Pat Maloney's coat
last Sunday night, and I suppose it's as well
for me to keep out of the kitchen till she cools
Off a little."

'* If yon an ao hnngiy, Sam, we will hare

some meat cookel for you," I said, laugh-
ing.

" What a stupid girl you are ! Of course I
want it to put on my eye, to take down the
swelling. Why, don't you know Heenan and
Tom Sayers cover their faces all over with it
after a fight, and come out the next day as
good as new ? Yoa see, I don't want father to
notice my black eye when be comes to tea."

Informed of the reuedy used by these cele-
brated gentlemen of the ring, I hastened to
procure it for the young pugilist, who while
he comforted his woundud member, narrated
to me the story o' his late encounter.

" You see, I didn't mean to get in any more
tights at school, for I know it's wrung and I
promised father that I wouldn't ; but this after-
noon, when we were out at recess, that great
Bill Loomis, who is afraid to fight a boy of hi i
own age, was bullying a little fellow not half
his size. Well, I uidn't say anything for a
while, — for it was none of my busiaess,— till
he began to twit the boy abuut his mother :
she's poor, and goes out washing. I thought
that was too mean, and says 1, ' Yon quit that,
Bill Loomis ; let hia mother alone.' Upon
that he turned upon me, and sayti he, in a
mighty innulting way, '0, its a sore subject -
is it 7 How does your mother like her medi-
cine 7' The boys were all standing round, and
heard it, and some of them laughed. I
couldn't stand that, and I pitched in. Lizzie,
I gave him an awful druobing. I guess he
won't foriiet it for* one while; and now,"
said Sam, looking up with a face nearly as red
as the plaster with which it was partly cover-
ed, " I want to know what he meant by it."

" He meant to insult you," I said ; " but I
am sorry you touched him. I wouldn't have
soiled the toe of my boot on him, if I had
been in your place."

The boy knew I evaded his question, and
looked suspiciously at me out of his one eye.

" He insulted my mother," he said, but, to
my great relief, did not pursue the subject ;
nor did ho ever introduce it again.

A few days after, I met him on the stairs
with a package in his hand.

" What have you there 7' I asked.

" Medicine for mother," he said ; " will yen
take it to her? Jim Pease is waiting for me.
Tell her I got it at Ghadwick's, and had it
charged."

I opened the bottle as soon as Sam was oat
of sight ; it was brandy ; and I threw bottl
and all out of the window.

That afternoon, as I was helping my mis
tress dress for her ride,— she rode everyday,
and I, by Mr. Barry's direction, went with, mr,
—she told me to fill a basket with sweetmeats
and jellies. "That poor Mrs. Isham is ill
again," Huldah says, " and we will carry her
something, Lizzie."

When we reached th^ honse, in an obscor*
part of the town, she said, quite naturally, " I
wlU flit In the oiurriage while yoa go in, lissle {

FBOM THS MANSION TO THB STRUT.

ill
her

aro
"I

don't hntry yoanJell" I did harry myaeir,
however, and was back ia five miaates. I
fou'ud her Bitting ae I left her ; but she was
flustered and out of breath, and Pat, the driver,
was staring with all his eyes.

When we reached home, I took occasion to
stop Pat aa he drove his horses to the stable.

" Did Mrs. Barry leave the carriage while I
was away, Pat?"

" Be jabbers," said Pat, " she niver waited
for me to lit the steps down, bat was oat in a
jiffy, an' whipped roand the corner to Paddv
O'Flannigan's shanty, an' back' fore ye could
count tin : it's a light fut the mistress has."

I waited to hear no more. Paddy O'F lannl-
gan kept an Irish groggery, one of the lowest
in town.

I flew ap stairs, and foandmy mistress with
the bottle at her lips. I snatched it Arom her,
and, wiUi all the strength I possessed, hurled
it through the window to the gravel walk
below.

In her frantic rage she turned and struck
me. *< How dare yon ?" she said, with flash-
ing eyes; "I have borne this long enough.
Too are a spy,— « moan, contemptible spy ; you
know yoa are. You have watched me and
dogged me, and never left me a moment to
myself for the last week. Ton have treated
me like a child, and worse than a child. Go,
I tell yoa ; I discharge you on the spot."

She spoke with so much decisioa, that for
a moment I was staggered.

" When BIr Barry comes home," I said, <* if
yoa still wish it, I will go "

"And does my authority go for nothing?
Has it come to this, that my husband sets my
servauts over me tu watch and to spy, and I
cannot even send them away without his
authority ? Everybody is against me. I am
the most wretched creature in the world, and
the only comfort left me they have taken
away."

She forgot her anger, and began to cry.
Presently she commenced pleading.

" Lizzie," she said, " I frill forgive yoa every-
thing if you will give me one glass. You
ased to give it to me every day. You were my
good, kind Lizzie then. You never caa refuse
me this one little favor. I helped you all I
could when yoa were in trouble. Dear Lizzie ,
good Lizzie, see, I kneel and beg you ; your
mi stress begs you on her knees for this one
little thing. Would yoa like to see your mother
knA«il and be refused ?"

I was greatly touched. I knelt beside her,
nd tried to raise her. I mingled my tears
with hers -, but I was firm. I remiodud her of
the solemn pledge I g'ive her huRband.

" He never will know it, dear," she said,
eagerly, " or if he ever finds itout, I will take
all the blame. Liazie, do this for me, and
when yoa are married I will give you the
handsomest wedding dress to be found in
Hartford. Only think I your wedding dress
for one littla glass of whiskey."

Ify wtdding dreai I If anjrthing could have
added to my distress at that moment, it was
this allusion. When at length she found ar-
guments and tears alike unavailing, she re-
lapsed into sallen silence ; onlv once I heard
her matter, "I will have t yet"

Mr. Barry did not oome home to tea that
night, and I think it was about nine o^cloek
when my mistress asked me to help her un-
dress. She was i^aiet and submissive ; bat I
remembered afterwards that there was a
strange, unsettled look in her eyes. I moved
aboat for a few moments, patUng things to
rights, then set a shaded light where it would
not diaturb her eyes, and left her to her re-
pose. I sat with ny sewing in my own little
room, close at hand. It was a wild night,
tbe wind high, and the rain beating againbt
the windows.

I heard Bridget and Katie oome in and go
to their room. Sam was in bed long ago, but
Mr. Barry and Phil were not yet at home.
Ten o'clock struck from Mrs. Barry's French
clock on the mantle-piece. I felt very weary
after the excitement of the day, worn out in
mind and body, and thought I would look in
and see if my mistress was quietly sleeping,
and then seek my pillow. I stole in on tip-
toes-looked, looked again. I ran to the table
and snatched tiie shade from the lamp. She
was gone I

I did not think of searching for her in the
house ; I knew too well she was not there. I
ran to the closet in the hall, where my hat
and shawl always hung ; they were missing.
In my fright and eagerness to be gone, I was
scarcely surprised ; but snatching a shawl of
Mrs. Barry's from the back ot her chair^ I
threw it over my head, and ran down stairs.
As I was unlocking the side door, I heard a
muffled knock, and, throwing it wide open,
Huldah stood before me. She was dripping
wet. Her wide ca^border clung flat and
starchless upon her forehead. Qreat drops
hung from the rim of her black bonnet, and
dripped from her elbows, and from the burden
she carried in her arms. What was that bur-
den? I remember noticing, first, my own
missing bonnet, the strings loosened, and
great masses of dark hair, dank and heavv,
falling nearly to the ground. Then I saw,
hanging limp and lifHless a little white hand ;
and as I look'^d, something caught the gle-tm
of the lamp I carried, and fl iMied back dia-
mond sparks. It was Mrs. Barry's wedding
ring I

Without a word, in solemn procession, wn
carried her up stairs, and laid her, all wet and
soil d as she was with the filth of the street,
upon her luxurious bed. Still neither of us
spokua word. I tried, with trembling hands,
to remove her wet garments ; but Huldah did
not offer to help me. Presently her chest
began tu heave ; there was a rhokini; in her
throat, and she broke into loud sobbing
" She was a-layin' in the street," said Hul-

•|;|

' Ip

i '

* 'tut rxMlLT DOOTOtt.

d«Ii; " 01*17 Hopkins was a-layin' in the
street. That head, by rights as high as any
lady's in the land, was down ia tho mud an'
the dirt"

It is dreadful to hear a man cry. One
knows the sorrow must be very deep to call
np sobs from a strong man's breast; and
Huldah was fc like a man in her physical
frame, in her resolute character, in her seem-
ing freedom ftom all woman's weaknesses,
that to hear her choking and sobbing with ir-
repressible emotion was something strange and
awe-inspiring.

•' I knew her when she was a gal," said
Huldah. *< They thought the ground wam't
good enongh for her to tread on, nor the sun
wam't bright enough to shine on her. They
wrapped her up in satin an' velvet, an' they
wouldn't let a breath o^ wind come nigh her ;
an' to-night she was out all alone in the cold
an' the dark, wadin' ankle-deep in the black
mud, with the wind arblowin' in her face, an'
the rain a-beatin' down on her bare bead, an'
that brown hair o* hem the square used to
slick d wn with his hand more'n a dozen times
a day, was »-dabblin' in the gutter. 0, ho I"
The howl with which she closed is indescri-
bable.

« An' her old father, he kep' on a-pilin' up
money an' buyin' land, an' they sez to him,
' Wiiat do you want any more for, square 7 '
an, sez he, ' I've got the hamdsomest gal in
the county, an' I'll make her the richest.'
An' the French governess she come, an' the
dancin' master he come, an' the grand piany
it come, an' they spent a power o' money, an'
what she didn't lam ain't wuth lamin' ; an'
to-night she lays there, an don't know no
more'n a beast."

" Hi;ldah 1 hush, and come and help me."

" An' when he brought her here a bride, the
feather on her bunnet wam't a bit irhiter'n
her forehead, nor the posies inside pinker'n
her cheeks, an' this ere room was fixed up
for her an' trimmed with June roses an'
she was a June rose herself, an' the purtiest
on 'em all ; an' she stepped out o' her grand
carriage, an' come walkin' in like a queen to
her bower ; an' to-night I fetched her in here
out o'tbe street. 0, ho I"

" She will die, Huldah, if you don't help me
take ofiF her wet clothes."

She did not heed me.

<*0, my Iambi" she cried, dropping on
her knees by the bedside; "my poor little
lost Iamb I I'd sin a hundred lives like mine
to save ye ; but the cruel wolf has got yer in
his jaws. 0, my lamb I my poor little lost
lamb I"

She spoke these words with infinite tender-
ness, great tears running down her cheeks
and dropping upon the haod she caressed be-
tween her rough palms. Then she rose to
her feet, threw off her wet outer garment,
and began, with strong bands^ to help me.
What gentleness and skill lore gave her I A

mother undressing a siok child could scircelf
be more delicate in her touch thui was that
coarse woman to-night. As I threw Mrs.
Barry's dress over a chair, something fell from
the pocket. I stooped to pick it up, and re-
cognized it instantly. It was my own little
green morocco porte-monnaie, a Christmas
gift from Frank.

Our task was completed, and I was gather-
ing up the wet garments, when I heard Mr.
Barry's night-key in the door. Huldah heard
it, too, and immediately left the room. She
was no favorite with •>fv. Barry, who only en-
dured her for his w' '.e ; and nnderstand-
ing this perfectly, s^pt out of his way as
much as possibk. answered his look of
surprise— for he noticed at once the disorder-
ed appearance of the room— by telling him all
I knew of the events of the evening. His hoe
was a sight to behold.

" She shall never taste another drop of
liquor, if I put her in a strait-jacket to keep
her from it."

This was all he said.

I went down stairs ; for after letting Huldah
in, I had foigotton to lock the side door.
On my return, as I entered the hall mt the
farther end, Philip Barry opened the front
door. I stood in the shadow, and waited till
he took the hand-lamp, always left burning
on the hall table for him, and went his way.
All up the stairs I noticed how the lamp
swayed and flickered in his hand ; and once
when it shone full upon his breast, I saw on
his shirt bosom, and on his light-colored vest,
spots of a dull red color. *' How careless in
him," I thought, " to spill his wine I" and then
it went from my mind.

I passed the door of my mistress's room on
tiptoe, and, looking in, saw Mr. Barry sitting
just where I left him. The proud man's head
was bowed, and his face covered with both his
hands.

CHAPTER XOL

UAMA. k POTU.

* O. I have paB«(>d a mlierable nt^ht
PofUll of fearful dreams, of u«l.v Bights,
That, as lam a Christi n f<<itbftil man,
I would not spend another such a nigtat.
Though 'twere to buy a world ol hap^y days."

All that night there were strange noises in
the house. They mingled with my dreams,
and roused me more than once from a sonnd
sleep, until at length I could sleep no more.
I heard a confused sound, like a person talk*
ing in a distant room, not loud, but fast and
angrily, then sinking to a low muttering, or
ending in a sharp cry, as from one in pain.
Several times something fell heavily to the
floor ; and once, starting up suddenly, I heard
a stealthy step in the hall, the ruitUof of

MANIA A POTU.

gannenif close to my door ; then the footsteps
seemed to retreat slowly, a (t«or opened and
shut, and all was still.

These sounds did not proceed from Mrs.
Barry's room. My sleeping apartment Joined
hers by a small dressing-room, scarcely larger
than a closet, both rooms also opening into
the ball. I could distinguish the slightest
Boond in her room— even her voioe, if she
spolKO in her usual tone ; but all was quiet
there. How could they sleep ? How dared
they sleep T Could it be possible that these
mysterious manifustations were for my ears
only, and that they presaged aome f^irther
disaster hanging orer this ill-fated house T I
thought the night would never end. Borrible
fimcies crowded upon me. My mind was full
of superstitious terror and awe. At length.
when the daylight crept into the room, I suilc
to sleep, aad did not waken till the sun shone
tall upon my windows. How foolish the
night'* fears seemed in the brightness of the
morning I I doubted if I had not been dream-
ing, and rasolved to say nothing of my alarm,
if no one but myself in the house was dis-
turbed.

When I came from my room, Mr. Barry
was in the hall. He handed me the key of
his wife's door without speaking. At all
times he was a man of few words, and latterly
had grown more reticent than ever. I under-
stood the action and the trust it impiitid, as
though he had spoken. I fouad my mistress
sleeping, and presently, when the bell rang
for breakfast, I went down stairs to pour tbe
coffee — a duty devolving upon me when she
was unable to rise.

Bam fiuiBhed his breakfast in a hurry, and
ran out of doors ; but returned in a few mo-
ments.

" father," he said, ** do come and see what
alls Phil. He acts as if he was crazy. He
sayi he is pulling cotton out of his mouth,
and he's msde it all bloody digging with bis
naits."

Whilfi he was speaking, his brother entered
the room His whole appearance was disor-
dertd and troubled ; hid fisce flushed, his eye
wild and bloodshot, and there was biood upon
his lips. With trembling hands he was work-
ing at his mouth, as though pulling some-
thing from it, measuring it uff, and winding it
up into a coil.

•« Philip, what is the matt r 7" said his father.

" Hatter enough," said the young man,
sulkily ; ** my mouth is full of wire, and I am
t ying to gt-t it ont. Gome, how many more
yards ? That's about enough, I should think.
0, come ont here, now. I'll fetch it.'

'* That's the way he's been running, father,
for the last hour. A while ago it was cotton,
and now it^s wire. Why, Phil, what are you
talking about 7 There's no wire there."

*« I tell yon then is," he replied, angrily :
* here, take this, will yoo T" and he appeared
to break off a piece, and hand it to his brother.

Sam burst into a loud langb, and Mr. Barry
looked from one to the other in astonish-
ment.

" Be quiet, Sam," he said ; "and, Phil, stop
this fooling, and eat your breakfast," "rhen,
noticing the boy's haggard fMe and shaking
hands, he added, sternly, " Have you been
drinking already this morning, sir T"

Philip uttered an oath. It was the first
time I ever heard him swear in his father's
presence.

"I haven't drank a glass of liquor in a
week," he said ; " the sight of it makes me
sick. I can't eat nor sleep, and I feel like a
fool."

*' Is it a new sensation 7" said his brother,
dryly.

Instead of the angry rejoinder I expected,
his face suddenly assumed an expression of
terror and disgust.

« O, take it off," he screamed ; « take it off!
The nasty, slimy, crawling thing I Mash it !
Kill it I There's another! Get off my foot
you little green cuss, you I O fisther, what
shall I do 7"

There was no mistaking this for foolinr.
Drops of real anguish stood on his forehead.

" Sam," said Mr. Barry, " run to Dr. Sharpe's
office, and ask him to step round as soon as
possible ; and, Pliilip, come to the library with
me."

I went to the kitchen to prepare Mrs.
Barry's breakfast ; but m a few minutes Sam
came in search of me.

" They want )ou in there," he said, '* toiget
cups and things for the doctor. Lizzie, what
i« the matter with Phil ? He has been carry-
ing on all night, talking and swearing, and
throwing bootjacks all over the room."

These, then, were the sounds I httard. Dr.
Sbarpe sat at the library table, his case of
medicines open before bim ; Mr. Barry in his
arm-cbair, opposite ; and Philip, quiet enough
at that moment, between tbem. I stood by
the doctor's chair, waiting his orders ; and I
noticed that, though apparently busy mixing
with his pocket-knife tbe powders of different
colors, he kept a close watch upon his patient.

" YiiUDg man," he said at length, looking
up from bis occupation, " what have you been
drinking lately?"

" There it is again," said Philip Barry, angri-
ly ; "everybody say*, 'What have you been
drinking 7' 1 have told you, over and over
again, I haven't drank a glass of liquor for
a week. How am I going to drink, 1 should
like to know, when the light of it makes me
gag?"

*' Yes, yes" ssid the doctor, soothingly, " I
understand all that. Tbe gastric derange-
ment, under which you are suffering, bis
brought about a morbid sensitiveness of the
mucous membrane of the stomach. A glass
half fVill of water, young woman, and a couple
of teaspoons. But before this was induced,
what was your accustomed stimulant r

^' '^

THE FAMILY DOOTOB.

. i

'* I don't know what yoa mean with your
big wurdei," fwid the patient.

" I mean, what did you drink, — ale, wine,
whiskey, or brandy 7"

" 0, well, doctor, when these bad feelings
first came on, and I found I couldn't l<e«p
wine or whiskey on my stomach, 1 began to
take brandy smashers, pretty stiff, too ; for the
stronger they were, the more likely they were
to stay down. For a while they did pretty
well ; and then they served me jnat like the
rest. Lookout, doctor I there's a black spider
as big as the palm of your hand, right over
you, ready to drop. Ha, ha I there he goes
plump on your head."

The doctor instinctively clapped his hand
to his bald crown.

" Hare you any brandy in the house ?" he
Kdd.
" Not a drop," said Mr. Barry.
" Well, send round to Gbadwick's, and get
a quart of his best, and gire it to this young
man, a spoonful at a time, as often as the
stomach will retain it. The powders and
draught are to be administered alternately,
once an hour. My young friend, we want
you to keep as quiet as possible. How did
. yon rest last night 1"

" Doctor, I never shut my eyes. I was dead
sleepy, too ; but I'll tell jou why." He lower-
ed his voice to a confidential tone. " There
were rata in my room, not common rats either,
but great fellows as big as your head, with
eyes as green as cats'. They scrambled all
over my bed ; they — Halloa I there's one
now I quick, doctor I there he goes, right up
your leg I 1 11 fetch him 1 '

He snatched his father's cane, and aimed a
blow at the doctor's knee, which that learned
man avoided by springing back with a display
of agility which was anything but dignified ;
then, in a wild chase round the room, the un-
happy boy pursued the imagined object of his
dislike, striking at chairs and tables, and ex-
hausting himself by a hundred vain e£forts.
Calmed at last, he stood pale, trembling, pant-
ing, the perspiration rolling from his face.

When the doctor rose to go, with a pro-
mise to call again in a few hours, Mr. Barry
asked me if I rememl)ered how the medicine
was to be given.

"It will be necessary," said Dr. Sharpe,
before I could reply, " for our, } oung friend to
be immediately providc<l with a nurse, pos-
sessing more physical strength than this
young woman. Let me suggest to you, Mr.
Barry, to obtain two able-bodied men to re-
main with him at present."

" In heaven's nam«, doctor," said Mr. Barry,
as they left the room together, '■ what ails the
boyT"

Dr. Sharpe lowered his voice, and with his
blandest smile said something I could not
hear.

" Tou don't mean it," said Mr. Barry, turn-
ing very pal««

" My dear sir, T assure yon there Is no oaOM
for alarm. I find your son," said Dr. 8harpe,
assuming his professional tone, ** in the second
stnge of a disease, which, in this age of medi-
cal science, and a greatly improved method of
practice, is now treated most successfully.
Indeed, I may say, it seldom proves fatal, on*
less complicatt^ by some other aff«cUon
which endangers life, apart from the influence
of the malady. In the present case, our
yontig friend's youth and good constitution
are greatly in his favor."

To this Mr. Barry made no reply.
"Come, come," said Dr Sharpe, "you must
not be unduly anxious. I we nothing alarm-
ing in the case at present. We have the
usual symptoms — watchfulness, nervous
tremor, with delirious illusions, a marked ir-
ritability of the muscular system, acceleration
and smallness of the pulse, Sto. ; all which in-
variably accompany the disease, none of them
at present in that degree to occasion any ap-
prehension as to the result. Tou notice, in
my treatment, I place great dependence upon
a timely and judicious exhibition of stima-
lants. Now, that strikes you as curious—
doesn't it? You remember the old proverb,
' A hair of the dog that bit you,' hey ? Let
me explain the philosophy to yon. Mania a
potu is produced by habitual stimulation ; but
mark this : the disease does not appear till the
stimulus is suspended. For instance : your
son is interrupted by a morbid condition of
the coating ot the stomach, in his daily use of
stfmulants. What is the consequence? His
system immediately feels the want of its
customary narcotic. It has been gradually
changed, until the depressing agent has be-
come necessary to an approach towards
health. Without it, he finds himself unable to
sleep, and his cerebral and nervous system are
thrown into a state of uncontrollable excite-
ment. There comes to be an excess of activ-
ity and a superabundance of vitality in the
brain and nerves, requiring the habitual nar^
cotic to ke?|> It aown. Bear this in mind,
my dear sir, tliat the disease arises from a
heightened activity in the sensorinm, and yoa
will readily see that — "

I know not how long Dr. Sharpe would
have discoursed learnedly upon the subject,
for he was under full headway, rubbing his
head quite savagely with one hand, while
with the other he held Mr. Barry by the but-
.ton of his coat ; but he was interrupted by a
hurried ring of the door-bell. As soon as I
opened the door, two gentlemen entered the
hall. One of them I knew perfectly. He was
a respected citizen and a justice of the peace ;
the other was a stranger.

Mr. Barry stepped forward to meet them,
and the doctor returned to the library to look
once more at his patient.

Mr. Thompson spoke in low, earnest tones,
and a part only of what he said reached my
eiMTS. He seemed to be apologising for aomo*

UNTIL DEATH DO TTS PAST.

«r

hlB
bile

ut-
>y a

tba

thing he wm about to do. I heard these
words- " painful duty"—" regret"— "sincere
sympathy"— with similar expressions ; then,
" a most unhappy affitir" — " your eldest son"
_« Turner's saloon"—" both under the influ-
ence of liquor" — " the young man desperate-
ly wounded" - " now in a dying condition ;"
then, still lower, something about satisfying
the claims of justice— and the word " arreMt "

I saw Mr. Bany put both hands to his head,
and heard him groan aloud ; then he iooik
them into the parlor, and I heard nothing
further ; but a few moments after, as I carried
my mistress's breakfast np stairs, they were
leaving the house, and Dr. Sharpe accom-
panied them to the door.

" I can give my affidavit, gentlemen," he
said, '*that the young man is in no condition
to go with you at present."

Mr. Barry did not leave the house that day.
By ids request, Dr. Sliarpe secured the attend-
ance of two strong men, who were well ac-
quainted with the disease, to take care of this
unhappy boy ; and before night it required
their united strength, and the exercise of all
their wits, to confine him to the room, and to
prevent him injuring himself and others.

my
|m»>

CHAPTER XIV.

DHTIIi DIATH DO US PABT.

"Then oome the wild weather, come sleet or

come snow ;
We will stand by each other however it blow ;
UpprcBslOQ and Eickness and sorrow and pain.
Shall be to our true love us links to the chain "

—LonafeUow.

I sat wits my mistress all day. Neither of
us spoke of her last night's experience ; but
she was very sad, often in tears, and never
once looked me in the face. I locked her door
on the outside every time I left the room ; but,
for very shame, I turned the key softly, and
hoped she did not hear.

Going down, just at evening, I met Haldah
on the stairs.

" Gheer up, gal," she said \ " he ain't dead
yet."

" What do you mean?" I inquired, in sor-
priF«. " Who isn't dead ? '

" Who isn't dead r Well, that's a onms
question. Ain't he yer sweetheart, arter
•11?"

I thought she meant Philip Barry, and I
gav9 an indignant denial.

" What consaruarf lies folks do tell 1" said
Huldah. " They told down stairs how you'd
been a-keepin' company these five years ; was
aa good as married ; said 'twas all along o' you
they fit. Phil Barry said something sassy
bout yer 'fore all the company, in Turner's
bar-room, and young Stanley he up and knock-
ed him down ; and then that limb of Satan out
with bis pistol, aod shot him through the

lungs. Dow tell, now, if he ain t your sweet>
heart, arter all ? Well, I thought yer seemed
mightly onconsamed."

i'he blow tell so suddenly that, for a mo-
ment, I felt bewildered. From what I heard
of Mr. Thompson's talk in the morning, I knew
that in a drunken quarrel with Philip Barry,
the previous evening, some one was danger-
ously wounded, and so certainly expected to
die that officers of justice were sent to appre-
hend the murderer. I knew nothing further
until this dreadful disclosure. Mr. Barry I
dared not question, and I was in no mood to
gossip with the girls in the kitchen, even if I
supposed they knew of the affair. Besides, I
felt little curiosity to know the name of the
victim. Philip Barry's associates were among
the worst young men in town, and I supposed
he had killed some worthless fellow as wild
and wicked as himself. My sympathies were
all enlisted in behalf of tiie doubly-afflicted
man under whose roof I dwelt. In those days
Mr. Barry did not inspire me with affection
and confidence. While the love I felt for my
mistress made it a delight to do for her, I
served him through fear. But now I pitied
him with all my heart— the proud nan, crush-
ed to the earth as he was, and l>eariDg every-
thing silently, sternly, and alone.

Many times that day, as every day, I had
thought of Frank, lovingly, but very s adly.
It seemed strange to be living apart from him,
shut out from his fellowship in the present
and the future, our interests separate, our
lives divided. The whole world was changed
to me since Sunday night. This and much more
I thought, sitting in my mistress's darkened
room. But now to know that he 'ay suflfering,
bleeding, dyinf — and for me I 0, it was tm>
much I I understood everything in an instant.
I remembered his reckless manner when, after
pleading in vain with me, he gave me back
my promise ; his passionate words, " Ood
knows I loved you well enough to be anything
you wished ; but you have made a desperate
man of me to-night ;" and I saw how, loving
me with that strong passionate nature, the
IMO. of parting was too great for him to bear,
and he plunged into excesses to forget it.
And so, when Phil Barry, in his low, insulting
way, spoke slightingly of me, Frank was rous-
ed to frenzy,and gave taunt for taunt,and court-
ed the quarrel that ended in the fatal shot.
In much less time than I can write them, these
thoughts fiashed through my mind, and I con-
fessed, in an agony of remorse, that I was the
cause of his death.

" Where is he, Huldah ?" I said, and my own
voice sounded strange to me.

" Why, what a numb critter yon be I" said
Huldah. "This ain't the fust you've beam
on't— is it ? ' Whar is he ?' to be sure I They
took him to the nighest house ; an don't the
widder Bartoi keep a factory boardin'-house
next to Turner's saloon ? So yer ma's ot the
Dussio' vi him ; for they lay, sinoe the old miui

THK FAMILT SOOTOB.

t '

I t

'I!

died, the boj ain't got kith nor l^in in these
pwrtf, only old Aunt Polly Qibbs ; and she
lires down river somewhere, and she's btd-rid
with rheaumatii. Well, I don't reclcon he'll
suffer for want o* care. They say the widder
was a hangin' over him all night jes like an
own mother, when them pesky doctors was
stickin' sharp things into him to try and pull
out the ball. They'd better a let the poor boy
die in peace, 'coidin' to my notion."

I could not bear another word. I hurried
to the library, and, giving Mr. Barry the key
to his wife's room, told bim I must go home
for an hour. Philip Barry was raving like a
maniac. I heard hiii shrieks and yellp, outside
the gate.

When I reached home, coth^^r , /a'i busy
orer the kitchen stove preparing beei-tea. She
looked tired and sad, but her ^e lighted in-
stantly when she saw me.

** I am glad you have come, Lizzie," she said
« I have looked for you all day."

" Mother, I only luew it half pu hca ..^o.
Will he die ?'»

" I am afraid he will, my child.'

"Then I have killed him. mother, ,L .
■hall I do?"

8he took me in her armp, anc^ let me cry a
little while, and then I toI.i her the itcrj as
briefly as I oonld. It touci.:;d her itoepi -
bringing to remembrance t er own sad ezpti i-
ence. I think at first she hardly knew how to
reply. But she comforted me ai well as she
could. It matters little what she said. I
could not repeat it, if I tried ; for I was too
excited and agitated to heed her, but was con-
tinually interrupting her begging to go to him
and ask his forgiveness betore he died. At
length she spoke sternly to me.

"No, Lizzie," she said, "yon cannot see
Frank to-night. The doctor left orders for
him to be kept perfectly quiet ; and to see you
in your present state would certainly kill him.
Ton can go back as you came, luless you can
control yourself "

I knew my mother meant what she said,
and the fear that he would indeed die, and
leave me unfoigiven, fviated me effectually
laid aside my bonnet and shawl, bathed my
eyes and smoothed my hair, and, to prove to
her that I was quite myself again, lifted the
beef-tea ftom the fire, and strained it Kith a
steady hand.

" dome, now yon are my brave girl again,"
mother said, and led the way to the sickroom.

He was sleeping, lying easily, with one
arm under big head, as I luid seen him many
a time years ago, when, wearied out with
uoyish sports, he slumbered on the green
grau under the apple trees in his tether's
orchard. His black curls clustersd round his
white forehead. O, how dreadfully white it
looked in the lamp-light, and his cheeks and
lips as well I I took the low seat by his bed-
side, and hardly dared to breathe, lest I should
wake him. How still he was I What if he

were already dead 1 In suJden terror I bent
over him, and he opened his eyes. He was
not in the least surprised to find me there.

"I thought you would come, Lizzie," he
said, with a smile. " I want to talk to you.
Please give me a drink of water. Will you
let me hold your hand 7 Thank you. Now I
can talk." He was so calm and self-possessed
that I felt ashamed of my agitation.

"Lizzie," he continued, "I am sorry for
those mean things I said Stmday night No,
don't interrupt me. I am going to talk it all
out. I was dreadfully angry with you. I
thought you were cruel and unjust to' me
then ; but I have bad a hard lesson, and I Lave
learned something by it. You knew me better
than I knew myself, dear. No wonder you
felt afraid to trust me. No, don't speak.
Yon see, I felt bo strong and self-conlident
that ii provoke! me to have yoa think me in
danger. You know I don't care for liquor, as
many young men do. I never di^k it be-
cause I loved it, but because all the other fel-
lows drank, and it seemed mean and unsocial
i to Infuse. I always despised a man who drank
aimself drunk. But last night I wast^in at
ITiiruer's, and they twitted me with looking
^^'10- snd 1 drank to get my spirits up, and
|tb«].. 'N-rcpn drinking; and at last, w en
I Ph) ' Raid something i.;oulting about you,

Ik7«.\,i^ ":• -rfo^n, and in an instant my
blo'yO wa. * .1 -a rire. The diglike 1 alwaj s
felt for him changed into such bitter, buiniug
liatj that I want«Mi his life's blood. i izziu,
it makes shudder to thinb. of it. It was
through no want of incliuation that I did not
kill him. There was murder in my heart, and
if I could have got that pistol from im I
would have had his heart's blood. And it was
the dtink that maddened me. The thought
of committing such a horrid deed no « turns
me sick. I toll you, Lizzie, there is nothing
too bad for a man to do when he has been
drinking."

"Hush, Frank; jou will make yourself
worse."

" No, it will do me good." He stopped a
moment to rest. " Lizzie, I suppose you
know the doctors say I cannot live. You
don't know how they hurt me last night ; but,
though the pain was dreadful to bear, it was
nothing in comparison to my distress of mind.
When you used to urge me to become a Chris-
tian, I acknowleged the truth of all you said
to me; and when I thought about it after-
wards, I would say to myself, ' Yes, I mean
to 1)0 a Christian someday ; but there is plenty
of time. I am too young to sol>er down, and
iMcome a church member quite yet. I want
to devote ail my strength aud energy now to
getting ahead in the world. When I have
enjoy^ myself a little more, and made money,
I will get religion, and be a good Christian
man.' And so, whenever an appeal was made
to me or I heard a sermon tliat set my consci-
ence to work, I would stave the matter off in

THl H0RR0B8.

this waj ; bat I knew all the while that I w»8
doing ' rong. And last nigbt, 0, how I felt
when I found I must die t Well, your mother
stood over me all night,— dear, kind woman ;
if flhe bad been my own mother she oonld not
have done mure for me, and I was groaning
dreadfully ; but it was more from pain of mind
than body. And she found it out some way,
for she began to tell me about Jesus ; how his
blood cleaaseth from all sio, and how he for-
gave the d;ing thief on the cross ; and that he
would not cattt me off, though I came to him
such a dreadful sinner, and at the eleventh
hour. And while she was talking, I just re-
solved to give myself right up to him, sins and
all. I had no time to wait and grow better,
and so I took my poor soul and put it into his
hands, and prayed to him to take me just as I
was. And, Lizzie, mv dreadful distress seem-
ed all of a sudden to pass away, and there
came such a peaceful feeling instead I It
made me think of the times when I was a
little fellow and used to grieve my mother,
and, the minute after, I knew I was wrong,
but was too proud to own it ; and so I would
go about all day, perfectly miserible, with a
Irad at my heart, till at last I could bear it no
longer, but would go to her and tell her I was
sorry, and, before the words were out of my
mouth, my heart was as light as a feather, and
1 could play and study apdn. Well, I felt
that last night, and to-day my trouble has not
come back, though I am almost afraid to hope
that Ood has forgiven me. And I can't think
about good things as I want to. My mind is
confused, and my head is weak, and this pain
drives all thought away. Lizzie, a sick-bed
is a poor place for repentance. I want to warn
evej^ one not to put olF religion to a dying
hour. It makes me shudder to think of the
example I have set ; the trifling, useless life I
have led. What bave I done to glorify Qod ?
Do you think he has forgiven me 7 It seems
so mean in me to have spent my whole life in
selfishly pleasing myself, and then put off my
Maker with tee fag-end. What can I do for Ood
on this sick-bed ? O, If he would but spare
my life a little longer, that I might do a little
good in the world, and try to atone, in some
measure, for all these wasted years I"

He paused utterly exhausted. I tried to
speak ; but the words would not come, and I
could only silently press his hand. He looked
earnestly in my face for a moment, and then
continued.

" But. this is not all I wanted to say to you.
No, it will not hurt me to talk. No matter if
it does, if I cannot live, you know. I have
been thiaking that when lam gone— Lizzie,
don't cry vso-you will be thinking about
what I said, and blame yourself for giving me
up. Now, promise me, dear, not to do it.
Yon have nothing o reproach yourself with.
I can see now why you dared not trust
yourself to me. Doesn't the Bible say, ' Be
not ooe^ually yoked together with unbe-

lievers ?* I see now what a poor husband I
should have made you. Lizzie, I realize it all.
I don't know that anything short of what
happened last night would have made me
realize, for I was so proud and self-confident ;
but Ood has taught me, by a fearful letison,
that my own strength is weakness. Now,
listen to me, dear. Yon did just right. You
must never shed one self-reproachful tear
when I am go e. I love you so much I want
you to be happy. I cannot die in peace think-
ing that I leave a shadow on your path."

For the first time, his voice faltered, and the
tears came to his eyes.

I forgot all about my mother's caution. I
forgot all my doubts and fears. I forgot every-
thing but my love for him, and my fear of
losing him. I called him by" every endearing
name I knew. I begged him, in the most
passionate language, not to die and leave me ;
and I never raised my head from his bosom,
or loosened my clasp about his neck, till he
smoothed my hair in the old fond way, and
called me " wife." Then I saw a red spot on
either cheek, and, frightened at the mischief I
had wrought, would have called my mother,
but he held me fast.

" One moment," he said, and took both my
hands in his.

" Mine, Lizzi«— really and truly mine ?" I
answered him in the solemn words of Scrip-
ture : —

*• ' God do so to me, and more also, if aught
but death part thee and me.' "

And this was our second betrothal.

CHAPTER XV.

TBI HOaaOHS.

" Possessed of devils."

"If aught but death part thee and me."
All the way home my heart repeated the sol-
emn pledge, making it a triumphant song.
This was joy enough for the present, and I
would not think of the terrible possibilities
of the future. If the angel of death hovered
over the house that nigbt, his wings caet no
shadow upon my path. Life was brim full of
sweetness and joy to me. How gently the
fragrant wind caressed my cheek, and lifted
the hair from my forehead 1 What a soft light
the new moon shed upon my path across the
meadows I -the path we so often had walked
together, with green grass and clover blos-
soms oa either side. And when I passed
under the old apple tree, way up in the branch-
es I heard a robin crooning nleepily to his
mate. I blessed them all, moon, and bird,
and tree. They seemed to sympathize in my
joy. Not even when I came in sight of the
stately mansion, within whose walls so much
sorrow and disgrace were hidden, d<d my happy
mood pass away.

i( iii

111

lii

I U

111

TBK VAMILT DOCTOR.

I slept Bonndly all night. I think I wm the
only p«rioa in tbehouuo wLowu notdiaturb-
ed by the outcries proceeding frem the room
where Philip Barry waa con&aed. Perhaps I
should except my niistresa, for I found her, oa
my return, quiet and comfortable in her bed ;
and in the morning she had scarcely changed
her position, and was disinclined to rise.
Tliis was surprising, because, without the
stimulant she craved, she was usually nervous,
irritable, aod sleepless. Had I left the Icey
of her room in other hands than her husband's
I might have suspected her of once more
eluding our vigilance ; but this was out of the
question, and I dismissed the thought

Passing the sick man's door the next morn-
ing, -he was removed to a room up stairs,— I
stumbled over Huldah in the d<irk hall. She
was on her knees, listening at the key-hole.
So far from feeling disturbed at being dis-
covered in this equivocal position, she urged
me, in a loud whisper, to join her; and
when I refused, she foUuwed me to my room to
talk.

"He won't die this time," she said ; "he's
bad enough, bnt he ain't dangerous."

" How can you tell Huldah ?"

"'Cause I'm acquainted with the disease,
child, an' Fve Jbeen a-watchin' his symptoms.
You see the heft of his ravin's is all about
little tiiingB, bugs, an' snakes, an' stingin' crit-
tars, a pesterin' him the hull time ; but if he
was dangerous, there'd be great heavy things
a-orushin' of him down, rocks, an' stuns, an'
sarpints as big round as the trunk of a tree,
an' great devils with pitchforks, an' sich lilce.
Wlien they see them things, an' can't get no
sleep, you kin most generally reckon on their
dyin'. To be sure, they do come out of it
sometimes ; but most always it's the send of
em."

" How came you to know so much about it,
Huldah?"

*' Oood land, child I didn't my father have
*the horrors,' as we used to call it, -didn't
know nothin' 'bout ' delirium tremens ' in them
days,— as much as a dozen times, an' die in a
fit on't at last? Dear suz I how scart I was
the fust time I I didn't know nothin' what
ailded him, he acted so dretful queer ; an' I
sent Mose Allen, unbeknown to father, lickity
skit, arter old Dr. Fudge. You see, &ther
kep' round about his work jest as if there
wasn't nothin' the matter of Lim. He alius
did. He wasn't a man to gin np to anything
as he had strength for to fight it. But every
now an' then he'd holler ont and make a grab
at somethiu' in the air, or he'd'be a olawin' in
tne horse-trough, or fishin' somethin' out o*
the water-pail ; an' when I axed him what he
was arter, he'd roll up his eyes awftil, an' yell
out, < Snakes I '

" Well, when Dr. Fudge got there, he watch-
ed him a spell, an' says he, < Don't be scart,
Huldy ; he'll come out o^ it ;' an' he gin him a
great dose of laudanum, on', sure enough, the

old nun went to sleep, an' I should think be
slept goin' on twelve hours; an' when he
woke up he was sore all over where he'd
mauled himself, an' jest as weak as a kitten,
but all right in his head. He was tacted that
way two or three times, an' got over it 'mazin'
quick : father had a wondeiYul constitution.
I don't remember as he ever enjoyed a spell of
poor health in his life. But I UHed to notice,
arter a while, the things that pestered him
was bigger, an' stronger, an' different like ; an'
he used to git clear tuckered out a-^halin'
away at 'em. Ooo land ! I've seen the sweat
pour off that man jest like rain, till there
wasn't a dry rag on him, an' he screechin' out
that he was chokin' an' dyin'; an' he'd gin the
dretfulest groans you ever heerd."

" I should think one such experience would
have cured him of drinking. When he re-
covered, did be remember all that happened,
and know the cause of his suffurings ?"

" There couldn't nobody have a more real-
izin' sense of it^ than what he did, nor feel
wuss over it, nnther. Father was wonderful
pious. He was a hard-shell Baptist, an' a real
pilbur in the church. You'd orter heerd him
talk in meetin'. He had a great gift, an* he
wam't the man to keep his talent hid up in a
napkin. Well, arter every spell o' hard drink-
in' he'd up an' make a confession afore the
ohuroh. Them confessions did a powerful
sight o' good. He was the meekest crittur
yon ever did see. Seemed as though he
couldn't run himself down enough. He used to
mourn over his state o' backslidin', an' call
himself the miserablest of sinners, an' a poor
worm o* the dust, an' sich like.

"Well, one time when he'd been cryin' an'
takin' on at a great rate, callin' himself every-
thing that was bad, old Deacon Job Skinner
got up. He was stun d^^f, an' couldn't hear
a word ; an' sez he, in his little squeaky voice,
' I kin bear witness to every word the good
brother has said.' I tell yer, &ther was riled
up. He held in till arter meetin', an' then he
shook his fist right in the old man's f «ce, an'
sez he, ' You fool 1 what did you mean by
blackguardin' me in that way Btore all the
company?' I say for't, if Uncle Job didn't
look skeert I an' yer see he was as innocent as
a hahf, for he hadn't he .rd one word, but cal-
kerlateid 'twas all right, 'cause father said it.
They all leoked np to fihther.

" But he made one confession I never shall
forget to my dyin' day. It was arter he got
argoin' pretty bad, and folks was beginnin' to
talk. Well, there come along a Baptist preach-
er, to stop over night with us. He was a
yaller-complected, lantern-jawed, oncomfort- ^
able lookin' crittur, an' had,, a wa^ when he
was talkin', of roUin' up his eyes, so you
could'ut see nothin' but the whites, an' puttin'
out his tongue every now and then to wet his
lips, that was dretful disagreeable. I tuk a
dislike to him the minut I sot eyes on him.
Well, arter supper, he beg«n to lector* fkther

THB lOlUlOIS.

;aa

fcal-

it.

all
ot
to

ch-

!*'

he
oa
Bia'

right •tan Mom AUmi an' J— Ho8e was men-
din' an old harness, and I was pe«)in' taters
for breakfast— about his drinkin' habits. He
didn t appear to find fault in the right kind o'
Bp«rit ; anyhow, it didn't suit father, for he up
in the middle on't bilin' mad, and ordered him
to clear out. An' when the crittur stood,
kinder dumbfounded-like, father hyste i him
off his feet, an' over the doorstep, an' flung bis
saddl»*bag8 arter hioL The next day father
was out in the tater field. He hadn't been
qvite right in his head for a day or two ; an'
t^at mornin' I see him take up the poker to
stir the fire, an' drop it as though it was red
hot; an' sez I, ' Father, what idls the poker 7'
an' sei he, ' It ain't a poker ; it's a snake, for it
squirmed in my liand.' But he went to work
all the same ; an' arter he'd hoed a spell - he
told me this, you see, when he got well— the' e
riz right up out o^ the tater hill he was hoin'
the head o' that are Baptist preacher. It gin
father a dretfnl start. ' Qit out o' my way,'
sez he. The crittur never moved, but kep a-
showin' the whites of its eyet, and runniu' out
its tongue to wet its lips, jest as it did the
night afore. * Git out o' my way.' sez father
agin, * if yer don't want to be cut in two with
this ere hoe;' but it never stirred. Father
Mid he didn't want to kill the crittur, an' so
he went t'other side o' the field to work on
another patch, but the varmJnt was there
qhicker'n be was, a-starin' at him out o^ the
fust hill. Well, by that time, father got his
dander np, an' sez he, * Now, look here, old
skewjaw ; you stop tluit mighty quick, or I'll
find out, with this ere hoe, whether you are a
haidHiheil or a soft ; and with that he went to
another hill, an' there thatdisgustin' old crittur
was, mowia' at him, and lickin' its chops as
bad as ever. An' father, he up with his hoe
an' chopped tliat head into more'n forty pieces.
Well, he had an awftil spell on't that time ;
some days it tuk three men to hold him ; but
when he was all over it, an' jest as right in
his head as you be, there warn't no power in
heaven nor airth could convince him that he
didn't kill that are Baptist preacher ; an' as
soon as ever he got about, he up an' made a
confession afore a hull meetin'-house full o'
folks.

" Sez father, sez he,«>he was a master hand
at quotin' 8criptur,-»' Bretliring an' sistering,
I do confess my sin this day ; I have slain a
man to my woundin', an' a young man to my
hurt.' Here they all set np a drotful groanin',
all but Deacon Job Skinner, aa' he squealed
out, 'Glory! Hallelujah I' He alius would
shoat ' Balleligah,' hit or miss Then father
he np an' told the 'aull story, only he didn't let
on 'bout the preacher's name.

« But he didn't git no peace o' mind arter
that. * I've laid hands on one o' the Lord's
anointed,' sez he. ' Lawful nke» I fiather,' sez
I, *supposia' ha was a minister.'— you see, it
warn't no use telUn' him he didn't kill the

postn' he was a minister,' sez I ; * that don't
make it no wuss. As fur as I kin see, minis-
ters is jest like othci folks, only a luttlu more
so.' But he wouldn't tako no comfort. He
got the idee that he'i committed the unpardon-
able sin, an' was given up to the Evil Ooo to
be tormented afore his time. In his next
spell— 'twas his last one— be fit devils tho
heft of the time. Every time that pour soul
went inter the street a troop on em' follered
him. He could hear em' close behind him,
tramp, tramp ; an' they'd curse an' blaspheme
awful, till he'd put his fingers in his ears, an'
run as tight as he could clip it. But be never
could run fast enuff to git away. There they
was again as soon as he slacked up a ketle ;
tramp, tramp, again, so close to him be could
feel thoir hot breaths ; but when he turned
round he never could see anything. Then
they'd jeer at him, an' say, < We are all here.
Yes, yes, we are all here, an' you won't never
git quit of us.' An' he used to hear 'em plan,
how, as soon as he went to sleep, they meant
to carry him down to torment ; an' he dursn't
go to bed for nights together, for jest as sure
as he laid down, they was all roimd him,
whisperin' an' plannln' how to do it. Yon
never see a poor soul so tormented in all your
life. ' Good devils,' sez he. < do go to some one
else, an' let a body git a leetle rest. There's
Squire Lincum. Why don't you take him?
He drinks as hard as I do.'

<*Bnt they never left him, night nor day.
One day he wandered off in the^elds some-
where, an' when night come he went to a
tarven down by the big creek, an' he axed
Bill Long, the landlord, to shet him np in a
leetle tight bunk there was under the counter ;
for he tiiought, mebbe, in ttiat little, close,
dark place he could hide away. But, Grand-
father Grievous I the minit his head teched the
piller, they was round him as thi'k as bees,
whisperin' to each other that he couldn't stan'
it much longer ; an' then they laughed sich a
horrid laugh that father's liair riz right up, an'
he lay in awfUl agony, an' never shet his eyes
all night

(' H« staggered hum the next day, a-shakin'
all over, an so weak he couldn't but jost stand ;
for all this time, yer see, he hadn't slep' a
wink. An' his head was so hot 'twould have
sizzled if you'd put it in water, an' his hands
an' feet was chunks of ice.

" When night come, sez I, < Father, yon
go to bed, an' let me set by ye, an' see if I
can't keep them pesky critturs off.' Good
lat'd t what a night that was I I had to call
in the neighbors to help me. One minit they
was stickin' pins in bim, or droppin bumiu'
coals on his head, or scorchin' him with red-
hot pinchers, an' he screechin' an' howlin', an'
ouBsin' an' blasphemin', till some on 'em
couldn't stand it. I alius thought Hose
Allen had grit; bat if that feller didn't tnm
aa white as a cloth, an' clap both hands to bis
ears, an' ran out o' doors! *He'U die if he

' (!

THS FAMILT DOCTOR.

dont go to ileep,' aes Dr. Fadge. ' I ■ball die
if I do,' MZ father.

'• Well, I see by an' by he waa clear tucker-
ed out. His hands was as cold as ice, an' he
liep' a-clawin', feeble-like, at somethin' over-
head, an' moaoin' an' mutterin' ; an oaoe in a
while h made a queer rattlin' noise in his
throat. ' Father,' ses I, ' do try and git a litt e
rest.' He gin me a dretful look. ' Don't let
me go to sleep,' sez he ; ' 0, don't let me go to
sleep!' 'Fore he got through speakin', his
eyes begun to drop. I see he w%8 dead sleepy,
an' I was goin' to rouse him ; bnt Dr. Fudge
he catched me by the arm, an' sea he, ' You
wake him If you dare. His life depends on
his gittia' a long rest' Well, he sUp', mebbe
five minits, an' then he riz right up, witb a yell
that made my blood run cold. ' They're got
met they've got met' sez he, an' went inter
a fit. Soon as ever he come out of it, he
went into another, an' so on till he'd had
four. Then he seemed to kinder come to,
an' he looked at me mighty pitiful, an' sez
he, * Huldy, for the Lord's sake, gin me some
rum.'

« It's been a great consolation to me," said
Httldah, " that he died pioua "

At this strange conclusion to her story I
looked at the woman in amazement. <' Does
she believe this?" I said to myself. "Can
she be cheating her soul with the delusion
that such a life ended in a pioos death 7"
She sat wiping her eyes with her apron, an
expression of quiet resignation on her face
tliat I am sure was not assumed, I did not
trouble her satisfied heart with my doubts;
but I marvelled greatly at the frith that
could build so stout a hope on so slender a
foundation. •

« Huldah," said I, <• tell that story to Phil
Barry, when he gets well, and he will never
touch a drop of liquor again as long as h«
lives."

Huldah laughed outright.

" Tell him a dozen sech stories," said she,
"an* he'll never drink one dram the less.
How green you be, gal I A man may have
the horrors as bad as father, only not die in
'em, an' you may fetch a quart o' rum, an' sez
you, ' Drink this, an' you'll have another wuss
spell, or let it alone, an' be a well man,' an' if
that poor miaguided orittur don't choose the
liquor, my name ain't Huldy Biliins. An' he
can't but choose it, if he knows it'll kill him.
'Cause why? It's his master. Sez Mose
Allen ^he alius put things stropg,— * When a
man gits to a sartin p int in drinUn', he loves
it better'n he loves hum, or wife, or children,
or heaven, or Ood. Why, there ain'tnothin'
left on him,' sez Mose, sea he, ' but his love
of rum, — a poor weak creetur, his pride
an' his ambition clean gone, an' jest one
thing stroDg about him, an' that apgrowin'
stronger an stronger every day, till it eata
him up."'

" Whftt beoame of Mose Allen when your

father died T" I inquired ; for she so frequently
made him her oracle that my curiosity was
excited.

" He lived with father seven years," said
Huldah, '*an' goin' on eight. When we broke
up, he moved to the west'ard ; bought a farm
out in Micbigany, somewhere in the river
country. A dretful flat, marshy place, folks
said. Didn't do much the fbst two years but
shake with fever an' ager. But, massy to me I
it didn't shake off none o* her fot. 'Fore that
woman was forty year old she was as broad aa
she was long."

<• 0, he married— did he?'

" Married I" said Huldah, spitefully. " He
married old Sam Blsley's darter. Her fkther
used to peddle clams for a livin', an' his'n waa
a cattle-driver. There'a fkmily for yerl A
gal with a pink an' white doll-baby faoe, and
a regelar little squat figur'. I'd rather be a
bwn-pole than a butter-tub. An' they do say
Mose got to be a regelar skinflint ; so awful
tight he'd cheat his own father oat of his eye-
teeth for the sake of a few coppers. So she
didn't git no great shakes arter all." Ah,
Huldah, were the grapes sour ?

'* Well," said Huldah, " I reckon I've talked
enough an' them cellar stairs have got to be
scrubbed down afore dinner."

'< And 1 most go to Mrs. Barry," I said.

" Tou let her be," said Huldah, in what I
afterwards remembered as a significant tone.
" She's all right. If she wants to lie qniet in
bed fbr a day or two, don't yon go todia-
turbin' of her ; for iV» tiie best thing ahe can
do."

CHAPTEB XVI.

TBI THIRD BTAGI OV TBI DIBIAai.

" O, wretched state I O, bosom black as death."

"O, thou eternal mover of the heavens.
Look with a ijentle eye noon tbin wretch;
O. beat away tbe busy, meddling fiend
That lays stronc siege unto this wretch's soul.
And tromtblsboacm purge this black despal .'*

S/iaketpMre.

I think it was the day after the conversa-
tion Just narrated, that Philip Barry, in one of
his intervals of quiet, called for his mother ;
and when they told him she was ill, and
could not come to him, he said, fretfully, that
" he wanted some woman about him, the men
were so rough." They had need to be rough
at times. His fkther, who was unwearied in
his attendance upon the sick-room, scarcely
leaving it day or nigbiL desiring to do every-
thing in his power to alleviate the poor boy'a
sufferings, tatd gratify his every wish, sent for
me.

I obeyed the aummona with the greatest
reluctance ; but all personal dislike gave place
to feelings of the deepest pity the moment I
entered the chamber of the tmbappy young

!if

■oul,
pal.'»

tare.

rent'
»ne of
tther;
and
,that
men
oagh
>d in

Irery-

] boy's

&tfor

TUS THIRD STAQK OF TBI DI8KAS1.

lB«n. He was lying, partly drasaed, upon the
bed. The peculiar wildnugs of countenance,
and hurried, anxious manner, I noticed on the
morning of his attack, liad increased a hundred
f Id. His face was dreadfully pale and hag-
gard, and his eyes sunk deep in their sockets.
When I touched bis hand, it was so cold and
clammy that I could hardly repress a shudder;
but his bead was burning hot, and the long
Lair he n ed to speud hours in dressing and
perfuming lay, ali wet with perspiration, in
tangled masses on the pillow. I brushed it
•way, and laid my hand upon his temples;
and he smiled, and said it felt cool and good,
ha took his medicine from me quietly, too ;
and wben a paroxysm of the disease came < n,
he listeued to me when no one else could in-
fluence bim i and when I attempted to leare
the room, he called me back, excitedly. The
doctor's orders were, that all irritating conten-
tions ^ould be avoided, and the patient's
wishes, in all oases when not likely to prove
injurious to bim, be indulged ; so I had no al-
ternative but to remain, and my time, for ihe
next two da^ s, was divided between the sick-
rooms.

Mrs. Barry needed little of my attentioB.
She begged, when I came to her with a cup of
tea, or some simple nourishment, to be let
alone, and lay in a stupid, half-sleeping state
all day. About noon, the second day, enter-
ing her room suddenly, I discovered an un-
mistakable smell of liquor, and saw the neck
of a black bottle protruding from under her
pillow. How she obtained it I could not
imagine, for I strictly obeyed Mr. Barry's in-
junotioI^ and locked her door every time I
left the room. I was on my way, bottle in
hand, to find Mr. Barry, when I met Hnldah.
In those days she was always prowling about
tne halls, and coming suddenly upon one
from unexpected nooks aud comers. I tried
to hide the bottle in the folds of my dress, but
her keen eyes detected the movement.

« Qive me my bottle," she said.

"Your bottle I Huldah, I have Just
found it under Mrs. Barry's pillow."

" Well, Bupposin' you liave ; that don't
hinder its'beln' mine— does it? Now, don't
stand there sayin', * Huldy,' an' lookin' at
me as though Fd broke all ten oommaudments
at one jump ; but take that poor cretur back
the only comfort that's left her in this world.
Take it back, I say," stamping her foot.

<* I shall do no such thing," I replied. " If
you choose to supply her with poison and sure
death, yon shall do it without my help. And
what's more, I'll hinder you all I can.
Uuldah, for shame I Take back your bottle,
or I'll throw it out of the window."

'* An' what's goin' to become of her, I'd like
to know 7" said Huldah, in a towering passion ;
<< yer all of yer off in t'other room, teudin' up
to that young limb that alius was the devil's
own, an' ain't wath the care yer gin him, an'
leavin' that sweet oretur all sole alone, locked

np in her chamber, with not a drop to bless
herself with. But she shall have It, if I climb
the ruff an' drop it down the chimbly to her.
She's got one ftrlend left, any how."

MA friend I" I said, indignantly. "Now,
Huldah, I can't stand here pleading with you ;
but you know very well, if I were to tell Mr.
Barry what you have done, you would never
be allowed to set foot In this bouse again.
But 1 am sure you will not oblige me to take
this course. Will you take back your bot-
tle?"

Her good sense convinced her at once of the
truth of what I said, and she changed her
tactics.

"How did yon get it to her, Huldah ?» I

<* Well, I'll tell you," she said, with a grin of
triumph. " Thiit night, arter you went home.
I was a-listenin' at Mis' Barry's door, an' she did
take on dretf\il, an' I could see her, through
the key-hole, a-walkin' up an' dowo,a-twtstin'
her hands, and a^iryin' fit to break yer heart.
An' sei I, ' Mis' Barry,' an' she knew my voice,
an' sea she, * Huldy, is that you ? Do git
me somethin' to drink. I'm locked in here,'
ses she, ' an' I'm a-dyin' for the want o' some-
thin' to drink.' ' Yer poor soul,' sez I, < yer
shall hev it. Yer come close to the door, an'
hear to me, an' do jest as I tell yer. Mis' Barry,
an' we'll come it over 'em as sure as my name's
Huldy Blllins. Yer wait till it s dark,' ses I,
'an' thin yer take a good stent string, long
enough to reach to the ground, an' let it out
o' the west winder, an' yer'l find somethin'
tied on to the eend on't. Draw it up stiddy,'
sea L Well, I'd jest had this ere filled," said
Huldah, with a loving look at the black bottle,
"an' it holds a chuckin' fall quart, aud cost
me forty cents, if it cost a penny ; but, dear
knows, I didn't begrudge it. I jest took one
good swig, an' then I corked it up tight, an' I
put it in my yarb basket, an' tucked an old
apron all round it to keep It stiddy ; an' when
it was right dark, I tied it on to the stiing, an'
Mis' Barry she drawed it up, an' that's the way
we done it ; an' she's been as peaceable as a
lamb an' as happy as a queen, ever sence," said
Huldah.

Of the scenes I witnessed, those two days, in
Philip Barry's room, I wish I need not speak.
Dr. Sharpe gave great hopes of his recovery.
It was his first attack, he said to the anxious
fJEither ; his youth and good constitution were
greatly in his favor ; so far as he could judge,
the case wa^ not complicated by the presence
of any other disMse ; and though the remedies
administered had not produced immediate re-
lief, and he was sorry to obuorve that there
were still marked signs of vascular excite-
ment, as well as nervous and sensorial exhaus-
tion, be had strong hopes that success would
attend our efforts, kc, ko. But coming in the
last morning, an • finding the patient liad not
closed his eyes all nigh', that his struggles had
been frequent and violent, that his pulse was

TBI FAUILT DOOTOB.

HiH fuarg were of

deep, dark, over-

if bis brnin »iu

And wonderfol it

quicker, ihoagb rery wenk, ftnd that the
tremor biwl inorpaaed in the haudt«, and wmh
extending orer the whole frame, he luokt;d
grave, and called fur couDHel.

All day the poor boy talked incecMotly
No imall troubles now.
Homeihiug, great, high,
whelming. It seemed as
suiTused, crushed, stifled
was to mark the lighlniDg-lIke rapidity with
which his diseased imagination worked, paint-
ing scene after scone of horror in startling
succession " The second woe is past, and be-
hold the third woe cometh quickly " His poor,
trembling, sinking frame grew weaker with
every strugKlo; but the soul was strong to
suffer, mighty to endure. His father stood by
and listened to agonizing appeal! for the help
lie could not give.

" Father, father I come down here. Help I
1 I'm sinking, lower and lower. Do reach
something down. 0, dear I it's so dark, and
damp, and cold. Pull me out! You laiy
fellows, pull me out, quick ! Heave away I
There I cornel See that great rock rolling
down on me I Where shall I go 7 Open the
window I Open it I Break it I Smash it out I
O, it's on me I Help me out I Try again I
Ton don't try I Father, father 1 you don't
try I"

There were oaths and onrses mingled with
this that I cannot transcribe. Pausing, from
utter exhaustion, with great drops of anguish
standing on his brow, he sobbed and cried
piteously, because we did not help him. Then
he began again.

" What's thli round my neck ? Here ! untie
it, Lizzie, do. It chokes me I Loosen it,
quick. Not that way! You Just pull it
tighter! Nobody tries to help me. You'll
kill me I You'll strangle me to death I I'm
so tired I 0, I'm so tired I

<'Dont let them in I Don't I Bar the
windows I Lock the door I There's more
than a hundred Indians outside I Don't you
see them? See their eyes through the window 1
Hark i How they do yell I They are coming !
Hide mo somewhere! They'll murder me!
Father, save me I 0, dearl What shall I
do?"

In the midst of one of these paroxysms, I
saw his young brother standing with white,
frightened face in the door-way, and I whis-
pered to Mr. Barry that it was no place for
the boy, and begged him to send him away.
An expression of pain crossed the father's
face, but he said, sternly, " Let him see it all,"
and called him to the bedside.

"See that water creepiog up through the
floor r* cried Philip. "How fast it rises!
We shall all bo drowned. How black and
angry it looks! It's on the bed I 0, how
cold it is I It chills me to death! Let me
out of this! I shall drown I I shall drown I

" There they all are pictured on the wall
In fin 1 Theie'8 the grapes I stole (row my

little Hick mIrUtI There's tno melons T took
ihat m(M>uHtiiay oiglit fnim th«< poor widow's
gitrdcn I There's lame Tim's boat wu went
ailing in Sunday, and stove to plectra behind
the rocks ! ThHiu's the liibU I tore to pieces,
lind flung in the flre, in Turner's stioon I
And here's blood on the wall I my God I
there's blood on the wall I My sins 1 my sins I "

They kept him on the bed by main force.
But he • as in every part of it ; braced against
the trail, defying his enemies, crouched in
one corner, or covered with the blankets, try-
ing to hidu from them, or struggling to release
himself from the attendants, that he might
dart through the window, and so escape his
tormentors. His looks of dread, his trembling
frame, his bloodshot, glaring eyes, his ravings,
his shudders, his fearful recoils from hi*
enemies, I have no power to describe.

In the midst of it all, Huldah stole into the
room, with an open Bible in her hand. It
was an old leather-bound book, the leaves
yellow with age. I knew at once that it was
her father's Bible. No one spoke to her. I
doubt if Mr. Barry saw her at first, so wholly
was his attention given to his son. She took
a seat near the bed, and, waiting till there was
a pause in his ravings, she began to read,
with inflection and empliasis peculiarly her
own.

" And behold, a man of the company cried
out, saying. Master, I beseech thee look upon
my son, for he is mine only child.

" And lo, a spirit taketh him, and he sud-
denly crieth ou^ and it teareth him that he
foameth again, and bruising him, hardly de-
parteth team him.

*' And I besought thy disciples to cast him
out, but they could not.

**And Jesus, answering, said, 0, foithless
and perverse generation, how long shall I be
with you, and sulTer you! Bring thy son
hither.

" And as he was yet coming, the devil threw
him down, and tare him. And Jesus rebuked
the unclean spirit, and healed the child, and
delivered him to his father."

'< Where is your Jesus T " said Philip Barry.
'' Pray to him, some of you. Father, pray to
him to come and heal your son. All of you
pray." He put his shaking hands together.
"'Now I lay me down to sleep.'" A few
years before, he uttered that prayer, an inno-
cent child, at his mother's knee ; now, before
he half finished it, he broke into the most
horrid oaths and blasphemies.

" My God I" said Mr. Barry, " he is lost for-
ever I"

He paught the word, and shouted, " Lost I
lost! lost!"

" My son," said his fhther, " would you like
to see the minister?"

" Yes, yes ; send for the minister, and let
him pray me into bell."

When Mr. Elliott came, I stole from the
room. In tbo Ul)rer7 I found Dr. Sharpe,

•rni THUD STAai oi tri disiabx.

try.

Bt for-
Lodtl
alike
id let

looklBff OT»r U« morning paper. As I tamed
to leftre the room, Hald«b entered, and, clos-
ing the door behind her, mucbed atmight to
the doctor*! obkir.

" Onn jott sleep nights T " abe «dd.

He look at her m blank amaiement.

" Can jrou ileep nighta 7" tbe repeated, in
her highest key. "Don't you have l>ad
dreame? Don't that poor ruined oretur up
•tairs, craiy for the drink she oan't live with-
out, an' that'll kUl her if she Ukee it^-an,
plenty more you've made Jeet like her,— ap-
pear to yer in the darkneaa 7 "

'* Ii the woman drank ot mad ?" laid Dr.
Sharpe.

"Mad," Mid Huldah, "with you an' your
tribe. You ought to bang out your sign over
the graveyard, for there's where yon fetch up
yer patients. Tou stay where you be."

The doctor had started for the door; but
she reached it first, and, standing before it,
drew herself to her full height, and fkirly
shook her fist in his face.

*' Tou stay where yon be," she repeated, *' or
it'll be the wuss for yer."

She was at least a head taller than Dr.
Sharpe, and looked so greatly his superior in
physical strength, and so equal to any amount
of personal violenoe she might choose to
inflict, that, I thinli, he gave «p all thought of
resistance, only looking round, in a helpless,
bewildered kind of way, in search of assist-
ance. I confess I enjoyed his discomfiture.

" Why, what a mean-spirited, pink-livered
old gum you be I" mdd Huldah, sorvoying
him, firom her height, with a look of sove-
reign contempt. " 1 don't wonder at it, nuther.
A man, with as mean a bizoess aa youm,
can't help lookin' streaked. Ain't yer* shamed
yerself, you flambergasted old frizzle-top t
WhalZs the good o' temperance societies, an'
prohiLitorj laws, an' sich like, while you an'
yer tribe are all over the conntiy feedin' it
oat to tJie gentry for medicine? Medicine I
That poor cretnr up charmber sent for yer to
cure her body, an' you gin her of the river of
hell to drink, an' pizened her, body an' soul.
Thatfs what you did, you bloodsuckin' old
gallipot! An' you go struttin' about like
a turkey-cock, an' ehuck the gold inter your
money-bag; but it's the price o* souls, an'
there'll come a day c? reckonin', too, as sure as
there's a Ood Almighty in heaven. An'
when you see them poor creturs, in the day o'
judtcment, a-p'intin' their fingers at yer, an'
callin' out, in the midst o' their torments,
' There he comes 1 There's the man that put
the bottle to our lips, and coaxed us to take
it for medicine,' you'll look streekeder'n you
do now, you venomous old sarpintl An' jt-r
knees'U shake, an' you'll look all round for
some leetle hole to crawl inter, an' you'll call
on the rocks to fall oa yer, an' the mountains
to cover yer from the wrath of the Lord Ood
Almighty. But "—raising her voice to an aw-
fol suruam — " there's a bed of fire and brim-

stone all rnaUy for yer ; and if there's « low
place in hull, its for wbiikey doctors."

At this moment the baodie of the door wm
turned on the outside, and Huldah relin-
quishing her position, thouKh she could not
resist a parting shake of ber fist in tbo doc-
tor's face, Mr. Elliott entered the room. He
was too much agitated to notice the panto-
mine, or the doctor's disoonoerted appearance,
but walked up and down tb^ room two or
three times without speaking. Meanwhile the
doctor smoothed his ruffled plumage, and was
himself again.

He was the first to break the silence.

"Tou find the patient sinking fast," he
said.

" I pray Ood," said the young minister, in
great agitation, " that I may never be called
to such another death-bed as his."

" You are too sensitive," said Dr. Sharpe.
" The phenomenon of the disease in its third
and last stage Is always distressing ; but in
your and my profession we become acciutom-
ed to such scenes."

"I have seen men die," said Mr. Elliott.
"In my ministerial experience, short as it
has been, I have stood by many death-beds :
but I have never seen anything like tbi . I
have bewd a dying infidel sullenly wish there
was no God, id the careless sinner plead
hopelessly for mercy, and a false religious pro-
fessor agonize in the boUowness of a hypo-
crite's hope ; but all put together, they cannot
compare with the agony of that wretched
boy's spirit, just ready to leave its flaming
tenem- at It was in my heart to pray that
death light speedily end his sufferings ; but
the words choked me as they rose to my lips,
for how could 1 hasten a wretch, with bis cup
of iniquity full to overflowing, all loathsome
and polluted with sin, and with horrid oaths
and blasphemies on his lips, into the presence
of his angry Maker. To be utterly forsaken
of Ood, and tortured by the united powers of
earth and hell, with not one hope left, '>t one
place of ref^e remaining, the body on fire,
the soul already in hell -that is delirium
trtmena."

" You speak strongly," said Dr. Sharpe.

'* I feel strongly. ' My brother's blood
cries to me from the ground ' I have been
dumb on the subject of temperance ; but, Ood
helping me, I will be dumb no longer. My
I example, my influence, my preaching, shall
; go against the horrid thing that has brought
; that wretched boy to his bed of death to-
day."

In the bland smile with which Dr. Sharpe
regarded him, I fancied I saw a little con-
tempt.

" You are excited, Mr. EUioti You have
confined yourself too closely to your study.
Your nervous system is quite unstrung. I
should recommend—"

Stimulant, perhaps. I do not know, for he
was hastily summoned to the sick-room.

TBI TAMILT DOOTOtt.

•i

Thank God, it WM almoit over I The dell-
riaui auik to low muttering. The trembling
hands went searching after objects he saw on
the bed, or floating in the air. Oradoally
the dreadftil acnteness of sense and nerre
passed away, and was sacoeeded by a qaleL
unoonscions state, which the doctor callea
eonta.

And so he died. His flither closed the star-
ing eyes, still deeming to look at some horrid
object, folded the poor tired liands, still at
last, and went up to his cbunber. And as he
went, he wept, and thus he said : " 0, my son,
my son ! Would Ood I had died for thee, my
son, my son I"

• • • • •

An Kwtal stillness was in the house. From
that closed room came no more shrieks and
groans, and agoniied entreaties. His last
prayer was uttered. When he was robed for
he grave they called me in to arrange his
hair, lying all matted and disheTelled upon
the pillow. I parted the bright, chestnut
locks firom his broad forehead. I looked at
his fair, regular features, from which the
look of horror had disappeared, and I thought
how beautiful, and nobl , and good he might
haTe been but for the curse of strong drink.
Then my heart went up in earnest prayer for
his young brother, thai the providence might
be blessMl to hia soul, and Koing forth from
this bed of death to a new life, ana walking in
the paths of virtue and religion, he might be a
blcMing to the Church and to the world, and
bring peaoe and consolation to his father's
disappointed, broken heart. I prayed for his
mother, that reason and conscience might
<moe more assert their claim, and sbe be saved
even at the eleventh hour. Then I went out,
and closed the door.

The air of the house oppressed me, and
Just at evening I stepped out upon the side
piaasa. Sam Barry was there crouched
upon the door-step, his face hidden in his
hands.

He looked up as I opened the door, and I
saw traces of tears on bis cheeks

" It's awful in the house," he said ; « I can't
stay there ; I can hear him groan all the time ;
I hear him now , I shall never forget it as long
as I live 0, what did father make me stay
therefor?"

He shuddered and sobbed, and then,
ashamed that a woman should see him cry,
dashed away his tears. I sat down on the
doorstep by his side ; but I did not dare to
say a word. I felt that Ood was speaking to
him.

"Whereishe? What is he doing? WUl
Ood let him suffer as he did here, and forever 7
Liuie,loantbearitl"

The picture of that wretched young man's
ngony, so frightful to witness that we tluuaked
l*cd when death ended it, oontinued, perpetu*

ated for months, for yeaM, for milUou
upon millions of ages, and then only just
commencing, not one step nearer a conclusion,
filled my soul with horror. It was too mys-
teriourly awful to look upon. I prayed for
piety to maintain a feeling of humble submis*
sion towards the all-wise and righteous Ood,
the Disposer of hunuui existence.

'•Hush," I said, "don't think of it. W«
must leave him in Ood's hands ; only remem-
ber this, Sam, all the horror and blackness,
the guilt, and misery, and remorse of that
death-bed, were caused by drink' ; and if you
are ever tempted to put a glass of liquor to
your lips, I hope the remembrance of what
you see there will cause you to dash it to the
ground.

" I hate it," said Sam ; " I wiU never touch •
drop as long as I live."

"Don't mi^e that vow in your own
strength," I said; "you need all Heaven to
help yon. You are not fighting against
flesh and blood, but against the powers of
darltness. Ood must aid yon, or you are
lost."

" Then why do good men use it, and tempt
their children to be drankards?" said the
boy, passionately. " I remember when he" .«
with frightened look over his shoulder -" used
to go round the table and sip the wine from
the bottom of the glasses, and they laughed,
and called him a * little toper ; ' and my father
drinks it with his dinner, and my mother takes
it for mvdiciuH, and —"

He stopped suddanly, for Mr. Barry stood
before us, coming round the house onper*
ceived in the twilight. I do not know how
much he heard ; but the outline of his face
against the clear evening sky looked very stem
and sad.

w Father, help me," said the boy, springing
up, and coming close to where the tall figure
stood looking down upon us. " You made me
stay in there and see him die, and I know
what killed him. I hate it I I hate the poi-
son tliat killed my brother ! I want to keep
clear of it ; and how can T, when you drink it
every day with your dinner, and give it to
your friends, and call it one of the ' good
gifts of God?' Father, is it * a good gift of
God?'"

Mr. Barry winced at the question ; bat he
answered never a word, only he took the
child's h^d in his, and drew him closer to his
side. The action touched Sam's alfiictioaate
heart.

" Ton have only me now, fisther," he said,
"and I am going to try and make you happy.
I want to love Ood. I want to do righ . I
want to grow up a good, useful nan. Father,
dear father, will you help me ?"

I slipped quietly away,— it was no scene far
spectators, —and left the fkther and son stand*
ing, hand in hand, under the stnrlighfi

THB TIMPIBANOS HIITINO.

tor

CHAPTER XVIL

TBI TllfPIRAXaB HUTIira.

M I wl'l not toneh tb*« ; ibr tta«r# oUngs
A MorploD to Uty tide, that •ilnvp."

lira. Barry, locked in her room, and stupe-
fied by the contents of Hnldah's black bottle,
knew nothing of the sad event jast related
till all was over. Two or three times, during
the last day of her son's life, she partially
aroused herself, to ask, in a firetftil way, why
there was so much noise in the house, com-
plaining that it made her head ache, and
wishing me to tell Bam not to talk so loudly
in the hall. But she relapsed immediately
into a dosing, half-unconscious state until the
end came. Then there was a change. How
much of the sad story— whether all, or only a

5 art > her husband told her, I never knew ;
ut it« effect upon her was wonderful. In the
agony of her grief, tiie appetite that held her
so long in its bondage seemed, for a time, to
lose all power <- this sudden sorrow ooming
to her with such overwhelming force, and so
filling her passionate nature, as to shut out
every other feeling; for Mrs. Bany was a
devoted mother, and the poor boy lying
robed for the gi*ve, in that upper chamber,
was her flrat^wm. After the paroxysm of
grief was ov«>r, she was comparatively calm,
and mora like herself than I had seen her for
months.

The evening before the ftaneral— • balmy
Sabbath evening— she sat with her husband,
in the twilight, and talked of her lost boy.
Her low, clear voice, a little tremulous and
broken, but wonderfully sweet in tone, came
to me through the open door.

" Philip," she said, " do you remember how
he looked when he was a baby, and how glad
yon were to have a son? Do you remember
his eyes, how blue they were, and how plump
and fiUr he was? And his hair I 0, was
there ever such lovely golden hair I— and it
grew so fast thatb before he was a year old, it
hung down his nee and over his boaom. I
have one of those long curls yet. How proud
and happy I was I I used to lie and look at
him, in a kind of ecstasy, he was so nerfect so
beautiftdl— Was he indeed mine? My life,
those lirst few weeks, was one prayer of grati-
tude to Qod for giving me such a treasure.
When he was a month old, you know, I took
cold, and was dangerously ill with fever.
Well, it was hard to think of dying ; life was
beautiful to me then ; but t'« luudest thing
•bout it was to leave my baby. It seemed to
me J could not die I must live to see him
grow up to be a man.

" When he was four years old, he had the
searlet fever, you know. Ton don't remem-
ber it as 1 dio. Men never reoMmber such
things aa women do. All on*- night— the
■Ight aflsr Or. Barton oaUed la oooiuel— I

held him on my kneefl, and prayed. 0, how I
pnyed for his life I I could pray for nothing
elae. I knew I ought to feel submissive to
Ood's will. I tried to say, ' But if Thou hast
otherwise determined—/ but every time I
came to the words I stopped. I could not
speak them. My heart cried out, *No, no.'
And at last I said, < God, send any other
trial, butgive me the child's life.' My husband,
Ood took me at my word. My baby I my
beautiful, innocent baby I"

The next day we buried him out of our
sight. On his costly coffin, round his pale
Cace, and in those nerveless hands, we laid

pure, sweet.

White flowers. We tiled to think
of him when he was an innocent child, and
his mother loved him as only a mother can
love. We tried not to think of his mis-spent
life, his awful snffierings, his premature death,
and the dread beyond. We ^ked up at the
bine heaven, so wide, so mercifully wide, for
all the sorrowful, and for the sinning, too,
thank Ood, if, even at the last hour, they r»>
pent and cry for mercy. Bat his dying words,
" Lost I lost I lost I " rang in our ears, and we
could not be deceived.

From that dishonored grave I hastened to
the bedside of one inexpressibly dear to me,
who lay hovering between life and death. For
days it seemed that to Philip Barry's many
crimes would be added that of murder ; but
Qod was very good to me, and Frank Stanley
did not die. Thanks to a good constitution,
and, as Huldah said, " in spite of the doctors,"
he stenggled through a long illness. But my
mother, wearied witti constant watching, great-
ly needed my asststaM* ; and as I knew Mr.
Barry would be much at home, for a few days
at least, I did not hesitate to ask leave of
absence. It was readily granted, and so it
was my happy lot to nuiae the dear one back
to life again.

And a very quiet, prudent nurse I proved
myself to be this time, calling forth even my
mother's approbation ; making no violent de-
monstrations, as on a former occasion, to bring
the fever flush to that pale cheek, but striving,
by extra care and discretion, to atone for
former errors. I prohibited all exciting
topics of conversation in the sick-room, and
enforced my commands with so much rigor
that Frank declared " I ruled bin with « rod
of iron."

But one evening he seemed so comfortable
that I ventured to ask a queation.

" Frank," I said. " what was it Philip Barry
said alx>ut me in Turner's saloon that evening
that made you so angry, and commenced tae
quarrel ?•

" It is too ridiculous to repeat, Linie ; and
it shows what a fool drink made of me that I
could care for such a wild story. But he said
he saw yon, after nine o'clock that same even*
iug, coming oat of Paddy (yFlannigan's mm*
shop with a Jug in jonr hand."

<«OriMik,llwMh}iowiiaotlMrl" ^ '

TBI VAMILT DOOf Oft.

BoQfaad hawf m ^ ^m in mj new

plojriMiitt and uoliag tlwfe n^ mlstraw vaa
mt» ia h«r kosbMid'i osi*, I did not go to Mr.
Banr'i bonM for MTei»l dsyt, m, indeed,
until ka Mnt fbr me. As I pMied the libnuiy
door, on mjr waj to ble wife'i room, ke called
me in. He looked old end eece-wom, and I
notked, for the flnt time^ tkat kli bhuk kikir
WM rtmeked with gtmj. In a &w woids he
informed me that, iStar coneultatioa witk Or.
Bharpe, ke kad decided to send Mre. Barry,
for a Uw numtka, to & prirate asylam for in^
brlatea, in a neigkboriog State, and ke wieked
me to prepare ker wardrobe, and paek ker
tronke, preparatory to tke jonmey. In kli
bard way, witkont a tonek of feeling in kie
Toice, tkie waa aaid ; but I knew tke cnp of kie
koffliiiatlon wai fall, and that tke proad aian'a
keart waa well nigk broken.

- Itfa time yoA waa back," aaid Hnldah, fol-
lowing me up atairs. "rack oanyins on I
noTer aee."

« Howla Mrs. Barry, Haldakr

"How ia ake? Ske'a aa bod as kad can
be. An' you might a-known ake wonld be,
when you went off to nau yer aweetbeart,
— ke U yer aweetkeart, for iXL yer waa ae
'ahamed on klm t^otkn: nigktf an' left kirn
to look arter that poor cretor ; aa if he ooold
do aoythlng. I nerer aee a man yit that
ooold manage women f61ka*and ha laat of
alL'

<* Wkat was tke trouble r

"Well, not moob. Only, afore that boy
waa oold in kia giare, kia mother was dead
dmok on tke cbarmber floor ; an' ake'a been
tkat way tko biggeat part o* the time ever
sence."

ti Hnldah, why didn't Mr. Barry—?"

« Tes, thatf s it," aaid Holdah ; " • why didn't
Mr. Bany T' Well, you can az him, if yer a
mind to. All I know Iil he sot there in hie
dMer from momin' till night, with his elbowa
on the table, and his hands la hia hair. That'a
the waf ke 'tended up to ker poor oretur.
Bobbin' ker life away, till ake got a drop to
oomfbrt keraelf witk."

" Where did ahe get itf I asked, auspeoting
tke black bottie.

" Dear knowa," aaid Huldah ; " I donH. Ton
needn't look at me, gal ; but tkera wea waya
enuff ; 'cauae, you see, ake wam't looked up any
more tkat waa played out. But there I it'a
no oae tiyln' to keep it from ker. Ton may
jeat aa well giro it up. We cant do notitin'
more for ker"

*' We oan pray for ker," I aaid, more to my-
self than to Hnldah.

"Gkxxi land! child, I havo, till I'm tired
on't Only yesterday, sea I, * Lord, do keep
ker sober one day ;' an' if ake wam't aa drunk
aa a iMdler f on eleven o'oloek in tke fbranooa I
On gin, tool" aaid HaMak, In great diagnst.
« • I wiak togiaoioua,' aes I, * Mis' Bany,' wken
I see kec so tipqr sho ooalda't walk alnigktyan
'I wish to fradoas,' sea I, « if yon will git

dmnk^ you'd git drank tespeetaUe. nf itlek to
yer kind. Ton are a bovn laay," sea L
• —brandy, an' wine, an' sick, is for you ; but
gin • bah, Irish washwomen, an' poor lost
erittura in the street, dilnk that^' sea I. An'
she laffed kinder dlly-like, and sos ske,
' Where's yer bhtok bottie^ Huldv V »

Wltka keavy haart I iNrepaied my mistress
for a joainoy. Listless, apathetio, Md atopid,
from a week'a drinkini^ ahe aeemed acaroely
to oomprekend what all tkose »i«parationa
meant, or whither ake wak goiog ; but when I
bade her good^bySf she put her arma about my
nc'ok, and witk teara atieaming^wn ker iiaee^
wkiaperad, ** I akall never be any better, Liaaie^
never, never I"

" No mom ake won't," aaid Haldah, to wkom
I reported tke deapalriiig woeda, "It^a as
true aa the QouftlL They may aend hbr to all
tke 'sylnms in tiie ooant^ ; Irat tkem doctors
wUl tell yon, if they apeak tke truth, that
wheM they do aom e ti m ea care me-?, they dont
never cure no women. I mean, when the
habit^a got a snre grip, folk's semi 'em there
to save diagraoe, an' git 'em ont o' the way,
jest as he haa, an' they doctor 'em, an' watch
'em, an' keep tke piienaway from 'em a spell,
an' mebbe tkey tUnk tkey are cored ; bnt Jest
as soon as tkey let 'em out, tbe^l go at it
agin. Women is so ourus. A man, ke gois
stinrin' about, an' gits taiterested in Uaneas
and politics^ an' sometimes ke forgits ; bat a
woman, ake ataya to knm, an' ahe goea round
and round, in a leetle narrac oirole, an' keepa
a4kinkin'. an' a-thinkin*, ao^ aka don't never
forgit. She kinder Uvea in ksr lovea and
katea, yer aee, an' ao wkat ake loves once ske
levee allua. An' tkna, aeconUn' to acriptur,
for sea Solomon, aei m, ' Oim man among a
thooaand have I found, but a woman have I
not found ; ' an' I reckon ke'd ought to know,
for he kad enough on 'em round, witk kia aeven
knndted wive*. Oood i«Bd I I don't wonder
tkey apiled kim between 'em."

Mr. Barry aooompanied hIa wife on lier
Journey, end Sam waa apnt to aobool in the
city. The boy'a bright apirit waa for the time
tkoroughlly subdued, and the lesson he learned
at bis brotber'a de%th>bi:d he will never forget.
I bade farewell to Bridget and Katie, who
were to keep hoaae till Mr. Biirrj'8retam,and
left the houae where I had witoeesed so much
aplendid misery, and went back to my happy
work. Huldak passed me on the Rravel witlk,
dressed for a Journey. Her whole wardrobe
was diapoeed about her persoa, and her head
waa aurmounted by three or fear hideous black
bonneta, perched one above another. Aa ske
pate cd me with mpid strides, 1 saw that her
basket of herbs, from which the bkwk bottle
IHTotruded, was on her arm.

Pleaaant aa it was. daring tke weeka tkat
followed, to watob Knunk'a mpid progress to>
wards kealth and strength, I wonM Ma have
prolonged thoee days of oonvaleecenoe, it was
so sweot to minister to hiaa, and to fitol that

epi

she

low,

bar

IliiB*
ied

land
inch

»b«

her

I to-

THi nunuuNoi uuyino.

be HhM diiptadent vipoii me ; [but In tamaj
futon of muried life, m happy m erer fall to
the lot of wonuui, I have fonnd • iweeter J07
In the protection of ttist strong «nB, en erer*
growing hepplnen in the shelter of ttaet loring
hearts

Frank voee from his sick-lwd an sltered
man. Tlie rows he made in angnish of soal,
and mider the terror of death, be fbithftallf re-
deemed in the flash of tetordlng health. The
lemaiAderofbitjOTitii, and the strength of
his maahood, he gave to Christ, uniting him-
self to the people of Qod by pnuic profession,
and making it the great purpose of Ids life to
^Krork for Jesns.

We were married otdefly, before thehanrest
moon was at its fml. The next spring my
husband built a small odttege, where his
father's fhnn-honse need to stand; the old
homestead was Uie only heritage farmer Stan-
luy left Us son* We urged my mother to give
tip her bOarding-house, and make her borne
Vnthus; but she deoidedly, though gtateftally,
refused. « No," she said ; " while Ood gires
me health and strength to do for myself, I will
be dependent upon no one, not even my own
childten. Besides, my way of Ufe suits me.
Psther always saia I had a head for bualness,
tad you know I have not been altogether tn-
tuccessful." A neat littie btan-book, that she
Bubjeettrd now and then to my husband's in-
spection, prored the truth of her words ; and
it began to be whispered about the neighbor-
hood that *' the widow Barton was forehand-
ed, and ha 1 laid up something against a rainy
day."

Soon after our marriage there was a tempe-
rance meeting held in town, and at the close
of the senrioe my husband stepped forward and
signed the pledge ; but fiiM he made a little
speech.

" I used to hate temperance societies," said
Frank, " and I had a great prejudice against
tiie total abstinence pledge. It Uras well
enough, I thought^ for the drunkard in the gut-
ter, a man so under the influence of a demor-
alising and degrading appetite that he could
ho longer be called a flree agent, but needed
Just such a powerful restraint; but it was
greatly beneath a man's dignity to sign away
his liberty. I should despise myself if I had
not strength of mind, and sufficient self-con-
trol, to know when and where to stop in the
use of any ot Ood's gifts. Temperance, I
maintained, was a higher Tirtue than absti-
nence attd I preferred and pracUsed it, for use
was right, and abUM was wrong ; and the
abuse of wine and strong drink by some did
not warrant the negation of its use by all. If
my neighbir chose to drink to excess, was 1
to deny myself an innocent gratifloation t
That's the way I talked. Some here to-night
haire heftrd me. and they talk so th*>ms«!lT«fS
I tnlst node will be led through tay snob
bitter experience as mine to change these
tIetN ; but I do hope my esperlenoe and my

testimony to-night may iMd mmb* of yoo to
make this change with ms^ fi>r I have left my
seat to tell you that I am rsady to go, heart and
hand, with any organisation that shall work
to put down tho aoenrsed thing in onr mtdst^
ana to put mj name to this total absUneaoe
pledge. For It Is just what I need. I do not
say that without it I Aonld go baok to the
use of sttmnlants, fat I haTo made a tow to
Ckd, which I belleTe Is registered In hearen,
nerer again to use intoxioating drink as a
bererafle. That tow I trust to keep, whether
my name goes upon this paper or not;bot I
seed the pledge to tell you all my purpose,
and to help any, by my countenance ana
fellowshipj^ho osay be tempted and need this
support To aay suoh I say to-night, * This
way, brother I Foot for foot I go with you.
Be of good heart. Are there snares and pit-
falls in the way T We wUl aroid them U^-
gether. Ltoos in the pathT Thank Gtod,
there's a stronger arm than mine can sare yon
from them. They are chained, brother I they
are chained I Oive me your hand, and look
up I'"

Then he put his name to the paper, and two
young men. one of them formerly an intimate
friend of Pnil Blurry, and a hara drinker, came
boldly forwafd and followed his example. .

In the hash that ensued, Ur. Elliott rose to
speak. HisToice was low, and two or three
times he paused, overpowered by emotion.
Se spoke of a great wrong committed, and
called himeelf an unlUthful shepherd in that
he had kept back a part of the truth, and been
hitherto sUent on this great moral question of
the day. He asked the forfilTeness of his
church and congregation, and miwle a solemn
TOW thathenceforth, so long as Ood rpared his
life, his influence aitd example shouIcVbeglTen
in flsTor of total abstinence, and his pulpit
should no longer be s'llent on the subject; for
said he, *' I belleTC thrtt drink is breaking more
hearts, bringing more distress into families,
killing more bodies, and sending more souli to
an eternity of misery, than all the other Tices
in this country put together. May God blast
the tree that besM B..-;h apples of Sodom, and
scatters ite damnable sised broadcast orer the
land. And Christian people, yes,— and to my
own shame I say it,— ministers of the Oospel,
with all tbis misery before their eyes, touch
the unclean thing, and defend its ura. In Tiew
of my past, it Is not for me to condemn others ;
but I ca I upon you, mj '"«' Cbrlntian frirnds,
on your knees, and overyutu Bibles, and with
t e example of Chriat before you, to think of
this question ; and Ood help you to a right
dfciston ; and may you gi^e yourselves, as I
do to-night, in this good cause, nntil by Cod's
blesxinic U shall triumph "

And nobly did oar young minister fhlfil bis
TOW. This speech, and the course he
op<>nIy pursued, created no small sttr in his
church and society, for some of k!« -r^Mlthiest
parishioners were wine-drlnkiug Chrlstiaas.

tBB VAklLT D0dT0tt<

W ^■

TethMB 1m g»T« gnat offimoe. More thui
ooa kadisK own •bo .ved his diipleMore bj
giring op his seat in chorob ; otbtrs stormed
•ad blustered : but Mr. Elliott prored himMtlf
as feerless aiid oataptdien m before he had
been timfci and silent. There were a few
stannch temperance men in the church who
held np his hands, and the storm blew orer.
One of his firm friends and supporters was
Mr. Bany. wha we learned long afterwards,
made ap from his own pocket the deficiency
in fands occasitmed by the withdrawal of the
'**ita%i'M pariddonera.

CHAP. XVIIL

OUB VnUTIB.

* He quite fDrgot tbelr vices in their woe.

• •• ■• ••

/And in his duty prompt at everytsaH,
lUo watched ana wept, be prayed and felt, for
all."

^ Notwithstanding the diffsrence in age and
character between Mr. Barry and our young mi-
' Bister,— >Mr. Elliott was quiet, retiring, and stu-
dious, and Mr. Barry a basUing wioe^wake
business man,— they became, about this time,
straogly attached to each other. By delicate
qrmpattiy, and kind, Christian ministration,
when Mr. Barry was well nigh broken>heartea
at the loss of his son, the young minister wound
himself about the pioud man's heart. I think
Mr. Bany told him all, giving him the history
of aliying grief that, perhaps, was harder to
bear than the shame mad. disappointment that
filled his heart when he laid his eldest son in

• dmnkaid's grsTe. It must have been a
blessed felief to the stricken man, whose idols

;lay shattered in the dust, to pour into the ears
^ of a sympathising Christian fUend tiie story
of his sorrows. The influence Mr. Elliott ac-
quired over him in this way resulted in great
good. Mr. Barry had never been an active
Christian. By his wealth and influence he
held the positionof a leading man in the church
and sodety. He hired one of the beat slips,
and, by his liberality, helped on the secular
interests of the enterprise, but added nothing,
hitherto, to its spiritual growth. By what
fUthftil admonitimis, and timely application
of the truth, Mr. ElUott led him to see the
hand ot Oed in his affliction, I know not ;
but this was the happy result of their Inti-
maoy, and Mr. Barry became a humble Chris*
tian, inquiring, with heartfelt earnestness,
** Lorl, what wilt thou have me to do?" In
•voiy good work he was his minister's right-
handmaa. It was pleasant to aee them walk
ing together in earnest consultation — Mr.
nilott^ pale, 'slender, tpirituel in appearance,
Iwt all «B fire with eagerness, and gesticulat-
ing with both hands ; and Mr. Bany, not
^«le so snot as in other days, and witb Us

black hair plentifully spHnkled with gray^
listening, with love and reverence, to his
young pastor's words.

My husband esteemed it a great honor
when he was taken into these counsels, and,
the three worked well together. When Mr.
Elliott wanted moneTi tid a shrewd, business
man's opinion and aavi^e, he found an able
assistant in Mr. Barry ; for out-door work and
active help, Frank was his man.

From PhiUp Barry's death-bed Mr. ElUott
went out determined to lift up a warning
voice, and, if possible, save the young men of
our village fkom a similar fkte.

" Is the young man Absalom safe T" was the
text of one of his temperance sermons : and
his earnest, afiectionate appeals mad solemn
warnings, spoken with all the ferv.tr of a soul
ftdly roused to the magnitude of the evil he
deplored, witii all the love a fidthful pastor
feels for the precious souls committed to his
charge, with all the eagerness of one who
mourns over past indiflference, and desires to
atone, by unwearied exertions in the present,
for fonner neglect, with the tears he could not
restrain, made it an effective sermon.

This was but one of the many eflbrts he put
forth for the salvation of this portion of his
eongrefratiim. He made personal appeals to
the young men themselves, and to their pa-
rents, that, if possible, all tihe restraints <^a
Christian home mignt be brought to bear upon
them. He organised a Band of Hope, and put
temperance songs and temperance mottoes in
the mouths of the little ones of his congrega-
tion, and strong temperance principles in
their hearts. Smne one, in derision, called
this little company " Elliott's Brigade," and
the name flouiished, and became a title of
honor to all who could claim it

Once only, alter Mr. Elliotts public ex>
pression of his total-abstinence principles,
was he insulted by an invitation to a party at
which wine was offered to the guests. We
heard, from one who was present, that he
declined the glass Mn. Glair offered him, with
a few quiet words that made this part of the
entertahunent diitestef ul to most <^ the oom«
pany, and that many glasses were set down
nntasted that evening. If the hostess intend*
ed to enteap and embamss her minister, she
was foiled in her attempt, as was her husband,
when a case of ch<dce French wine was left, in
his name, as a gift, at Mr. Blliott's door. It was
returned, with a note ; of which Mr. Clair said
notUng to his boon companions^ to whom he
had boasted that " the parson would accept
hisp''Baent, and drink it on the aly."

l^t these things were not done offensively.
Mr. Elliott was quiet and retiring in manner,
not in the least forth-putting, or opinionated,
and he nude fewer oiemies by the course he
pursued than many a less decided man. But
It came to be dearly understood by the com-
munity, that in all oompaniea^ and under all
oiioomstaiioei, iM was n total«bstiQ«noe nan ;

OUB MINISTia. — "isn't IT TIMB tOR MT BOUBBOM?"

ftl

ud iBuy who difend fram blm in opinion
mpeotM vtA lionored him for tlie conaistent
eoorae be panned. He bated the vice of in-
tempennce, and fonght it to the death ; but
his sonl wai drawn, in tenderest compassion,
towards its Tictims. ** He loathed the sin, but
loTedthtf sinner." ]Ianyapoordmnkard,so
democaiiied and degraded by the habit, and so
lecUess and despairing, as, seemingly, to be
lost t> all sense of sluime, has grown bopefnl
nnder this good man's wonls of cheer. '* Des-

E air of no man," was a &orite maxim with
im, and I think he was nerer happier than
when he saccoeded in inspiring in some poor,
desponding, sin-iaden soul the feeling that he
was not forsaken and given over by all men
to destruction. He used to say that this was
half the battle ; that a man sunk low in this
vice, who despises himself for a weakness
which he has not strength to overcome, hae a
mdrbid consciousness that he is despised by
others, that every man s hand is against him,
tha no man cares for his soul : but once con-
vinoe him to the contrary, and quicken into
life the ftintest spark of self-respect in his
bosom, and, sullen and deep tiring as he may
have been, that man will rouse himself, and
make mighty eflbrts to break the chain that
binds him. Believing this, our pastor sought
out these lokt ones, and, having found theni.
patiently, unweariedly, and with a love and
tenderuefig that was truly Christ-like, sought
tt> bring ttirm baciL to the fold. He did not
stand MUr off, and fling bits of the Gospel at
tbeir heiuiH, ur, with pitying, but half-scomful
eyts looking upon them, bid them come up to
him, and learn how to be saved. He went
down to them. Ho gave them his hand, yes,
both hands, to lifi them up, aod his neart
too ; for, diogusting and polluted as they migh,
be, he saw God's image and superpcriptioa
written on their foreheaid^, and he loved them.

He believed that in the Gospel of Christ lay
the drunkard's only hope of deliverance ; that
without this, vows, resolutioDs, and pledges
are of little avail. In the strength of these,
with the memory of remorse and dreadfbl suf-
fering, the unhappy man may for a sea8on,resist
the demon of drink within ; but it is stronger
than he, and, sooner or later, he will fitlter and
falL "Not by might, nor by power, but my
Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts." « The fear of
mitn bringeth a snare ; but whoso puttoth his
trust in the Lord shall be safe."

8ome of Mr. Elliotts sermons were preach-
ed in strange places. In low grog-shops and
giiubling saloons he sought his unwilling^ j and refuge.
liHtf ners, and such was the lOWer of his great
litving heart over those who came nnder its
lufluMUce, that these rough, wiote ^ men stop-
ped their oaths and bhuiphemies, and listened
as he told them the story of the Gross. He
has been known to single out from such a
group a^toor, tr>!mbling,half-paI«ilBd victim of
rum, sefmia^ly in the last stage of desnida-
tioa, and, taking him by the hand, In umple

words, uttered with an eamestneas and elo-
quence that few could resitft, lead him away
from his companions. He has been known
to take such a ime, ragged, filthy, and loath-
some as he was. to his own home, to oheer,
and comfort, ana clothe him ; to " be at daily
charges with him, " and to tiy to awaken in
his wretehed, benumbed heart a desire fv bet-
ter things. This is how onr minister went
abont preaching the Gospel of Christ. Is It
strange that we loved hbn as we never loved a
minister before?— that people called him
" the poor man's firiend," <* the good Samari-
tan 7" that little children ran to meet him in
the streets, and people blessed him as he paa»<
ed their doors? And who can estimate the
good aooomplished by one earnest, feariesa
worker for God, amid a hctt of time-serving,
wine-bibbing nunisters?

** Son of man, prophesy against the ihep>
herds of Israel.

" Woe be to the shepherds of Israel that do
feed themselves! Should not the shepherds
feed the flecks?

" The diseased have ye not strengthened,
neither have ye healed tiiat which was sick,,
neither have ye bound up that which waa '
broken, neither have ye brought in that whioh
was driven away, neither have ye sought
that which was lost.

" Behold, I am against the shepherds.**

/ CHAP. XIX. .

" m'T IT nm toa mr boubbov?"

" O, woe, deep woe, to e^rtbl.v love's ftmd tm«t
When aliitonoe nus wontilpped lies In du>t.'l

—Mre. JR O SnOmru.

Mrs. Barry remained at the asylum six
months. When she returned she looked
broken in health, a mere shadow of her
former self; but we heard that »he was cured.
I saw her but seldom. There was too much
conscioaspess of the past between us to make
onr intercourse pleasant. 8be lived in n
retired way, and her former friends complain-
ed that she avoided them. After a few ■>•■ nths
she again left homo, and people said she was
boarding in the country. When, after a long
absence, she returned, her face told a dreadful
story. She was drinking again. I do not
know whether she was sent to the asylum
again, or to some other place of concealment
Mr. Barry never mentioiied her
name, and his intimate friends eeaaed to
inquire for his wife. To the circle in which
by her beauty and intelligence, she formerly
shone as ite brightest gem, she was dead

From time to time, various reporte were rife
in the village concerning her. "She was
living far away," the gossips said, ** hiding her
shame in some lonely place, with only a
strong working-woman to taka oars of Uti;''

vmmi

tBl TAUILT DOOTOB.

" 8be WM bojMileMly iaiane, and confined in a
priTste BUuMionM, or, hiding away lomewheFe,
wai killing hcnelf oj the ezcewive nw of
opinm." Wild and improbable as theae m-
iBors were, plenty of credulous people belier-
•4 and ciKoIated them ; but the only tale I
•hoaght worthy of credence was told as by a
lady residing in a neighboring town.

(Jhe was trarelling, as she said, in the stage,
«me rainy day, the prerioas summer, over a
lunely tract of country, between two mountain
towns in Vermont. Just at night, as they
climbed a long asoeni, she saw 'rom the coach
window a woman toiling slowly up the hill.
Her clothes, wet with the fine, cold rain that
was fftlling, were draggled to the knees. She
steppe4 to the side ot the narrow road to
allow ^e stage to pass, and resting a jug she
carried upon a conrenient rock, she bowed
and courtesiedto the passengers inside," with
drunken politeness. It was too dark to dis-
tinguish the features of her face, but the hand
she wared was small and white, and there was
something in her attitude and gestures pain-
folly (kmUiar to Mrs.

'*Do yan know that poor creature?" she
Inquired of a fellow-passenger, a sturdy, well-
to-do farmer, whom she judged from his
oouTeraation to belong to that aection of the
country.

" I hare an outside acquaintance with her,
marm," he replied, "t nerer spoke to the
woman in my life, but I've passed her on this
piece of road a considerable number of times,
when I was driring my team. She lives up
to thi top of Cobble Hill, 'long with Jabe
Fuller. Ml?' Fuller, she looks after her. My
woman says Khe don't see how in the world
she finds time to do it, with all her €|airy work,
and a sight of other chores. But Mis' Fuller's
smart, and knows what she's aboat, and they
say he pays well "

"He? Who?"

" Why, her husband, to be sure He's wuth
a power of money, but be can't live with his
wife, 'oause she will drink and die grace him ;
so be boards her up here, where she's out of
sight mostly, iw is a lonely place. That
little brown house yonder is Jabe's nearest
neighbor, and it's a good mile yet to the top of
Cobble Hill."

*' Has that wretched woman a mile fiuther
to walk this cold, rainy night?"

*' She's warm enough inside," he replied,
laughing. •* She's been down to the tavern
to fill up to jug. They don't mean she
shall help herself; His' Fuller deals it out to
her; but she steals away sometimes,— a body
can't keep track of her always,— and then
she has a time. If she was my woman, I'd
put a banrel of whiskey in the cellar, and give
her the key ; and the sooner, she drinked her-
self to death, the better twould bt for her and
all ooacemed,"

** Do yoh know where her hniband livM f
Kw. to^uiwd.

" Well, I can't say as I do, though t may
have heaid the name of the town. Anyhow,
it's in Connecticut, and not a great ways
from Hartford. Do yon know any of her
folks ?«

Mr. Barry, meanwhile, with the fkithfhl
Bridget for housekeeper, lived a sad, s(rfitary
life in the great house, his loneliness broken
now and then ^7 • vi*!* flrom his only r»-
maicing cfcild. Sam Barry was in college;
and as years went by, and the awkward boy
developed into an intelligent and cultivated
young man, with little of his brother's person-
al beauty, it is true, but, thank Ood, witn none
of his vices, we saw that the fhtherti heart was
becoming more and more fixed upon his
youngest son.

Meanwhile, my husband grew daily In the
conMence of his employer, making himself
so necessary to the establishment, that in the
fifth year of our marriage he was taken into
partnership, and the business prospered
greatly.

AU this time we saw Uttio of Huldah.
Two or three times she appeared suddenly,
with herb basket and black bottle, and my
cottage was scrubbed from garret to cellar ;
but she complained often of fktlgue, was
"elear tuckered, out," as she expressed
and we saw that gin, and hard work, aa
the rough life she -bad led for so many years,
were telling at last upon her iron conatitu-
tion. She was restless and uneasy, and de-
parted as suddenly as she came ; and from cer-
tain mysterious hints she dropped, I concluded
she had ferreted out the place of Mrs. Barry's
retreat.

One bleak day in November, after an un<
usually long absence, she stalked into my nur-
sery, sat herself down in the nearest chair, and
rooked her tall body to and fro with all her
old energy. My baby looked at her with wide
blue eyes ; but she took no notice of the new
comer, and I saw that her fao« was working
with strong emotion.

"She's iHlyin'," she said, at length; "an'
they won't let me come nigh her— me, that
held her in my arms when A« was a baby."

" At home f ' I said, for I knew, ot course she
q^ke of Mrs. Parry.

" He's fetched her home to die," said Hal-
dab, in great agitation. " He went up to that
poor little mean place, where he s hid her
away these three years, an' they told him she
was most gone, an' if he wasn't a savage right
out o' the woods, he'd let her die to hum ; an'
hes fetched her back, an' Fve come a-foot
from Vamon, staoe daylight, a purpose to see
her, an' an old taller-fiwed nuss, with a nose all
dmwed one side from taking saufT, shet the
door in my tuoe. I'd like to git hold of her
old mug," said Huldah, displaying some for-
midable-looking taloas. " Thar ain't nobody
got a better right to ae« Clary Hopkiu dUi
than what I have."

FROM THl OOTTAGI TO TIIB MANSION.

" Well, Mk Mr Barry, Hnldah. He knowi
how intinwto you were with hii wife'e funily,
Kud th&t yon hare always had the liberty of
the houee. He will make it all right. Tou
moat go to him."

"I ain't a^oia' to do no rich thing," wid
Haldah, spitefully ; '* there never was no loTe
lost between us, an' latterly he can't bear the
sight o* ne. I won't go near him. Yon ask
him. He'll d i anything for you."
. I readily promised, and she went away
satisfied. With a dull pain at my heart, I
took the old familiar way to Urs. Barry's room.
Oreat Heaven t was that hideous, bloated
thing, With flabby cheeks and red eye8,huddled
in an unseemly heap aponthe bed, the i)eauti-
fol, graceful woman I saw first in that room
years ago? With great difficulty I recalled
myself to her remembrance. Every sense was
numbed and deadened. There was a far-away
1 iok to her ftice, and the poor, bleared eyes
seemed gasiugat something a longdistance,
off. I put my lips close to bar ear, and called
to her that it was Lizsie - Lizzie Barton : did
she remember me ? Gould she speak to me ?
A faint gleam of intelligence crossed her fea*
tnres. Listening attentively, and watching
at the same time the motion of her lips, I
caught the words, " Lisaie, isn't it time for
my Bourbon?" Then the ter-away look
oame back. Presently there was an ezpres*
sion of pain on her face. ** Dear Mrs. Barry,"
I said, *' do you suffer much?" I repeated
this many times before she understood ne ;
then she seplied, dreamily, *'I think some
one in the room is suffering," and sank down
again.

The November wind blew the dead leaves
all about my fuet as I walked down the gravel
path, and nloaned round the house with a
dreadful sound. Bade again in my cottage
home, I snatched my baby from her cradle,
and holding her close to my heart, prayed
that, beautiful and precious as she was to me,
Ood would take her that hour, that moment,
lather than let her grow up to such a life, and
such a death.

My request for Huldah was readily granted,
and she watched the faint spark of life go out.
There was no change in Mrs. Barry. Her
intellect was clouded to the last. "She
never found her mind again," Huldah said ; but
when the end came, a very sweet delusion
was given to her. She seemed to fondle an
infant in her arms, crooning softly to it, and
whisp«iring snatches of baby«talk, and aweet
cradle lullabys, and so, holding it dose to her
heart, she died, smiling. Was the angel of
her infant daughter, taken from ber when she
was good, and innocent, and all that a mother
should Ite, sent to comfort this poor woman
in her dyins hour? Gtod knows. The dear
heaven is wTd& and He is very merciful, and
we can leav her. trivd, tempted, sinful, and
poRowiog, in Bis nandf.

CHAP. XX.

VBOK THl OOTTAQI TO TUB MAVIIOI.

"Ten years to-day abe baa boen bis.
He but brglns t(innder»taniJ,
HA xays, the dlvnlly and bllw
blie gave bim wben >be gave her band."
"VoviUrv taimont

A few weeks after Mrs. Barry's death, Frank
oame in one day with a great pieoo of nawa.

" Liszie, Mr. Barry is going abroad. Bam
wants to visit the hospitius in France,— ha is
to be a doctor, you know,<— and his father i»
going.with him. They will probably be absent
two years, and I am to liave cluuge of the bnsi-
nes4 while he is absent Now open your eyea
wider still, for he offers his phMW for sale, and
wants me to buy it.**

" Wants you to buy the Barry place I" I
exclaimed.

" Yes i why not ?" said my hoaband. " This
little pen did well enough for you and mo ;
but now we are family folks"— with • gUuica
at the cradle. " We need more room. Then
your mother could live with us, and yon would
be saved the trouble, every tima that baby
sneezes, of sending a quarter of a mile down
street to her, to know what is the matter ; and,
as she is such an independent lady, she can
have a aeparate establishment of her own, if
she likes, in that great house."

"But can we afford it, Frank? I don't
mean the purchase of the property. That if
but the beginning. It costs something, yott
know, to keep up such an establishment."

< WeU, my prudent UtUe wife," said Frank,
laughing, " I think we can afford it, and if
you will call to mind what I told you last night
about tbe profits of the basiness last yoar,—
and I am bound to make them greater this,—
yon will think so too. Now, madav, what
further objections ?"

" Frank, we have been so happy here 1
This ' little pen,' as you call it, is the dearest
spot on earth to me. I amafhudwashall lot
be as happy anywhere else."

Frank bent over me. and said something in
the tone I best love to iiear. No matter wliat
it was. Lover's speeches will not bear rspeat-
ing, and, though bo long married, I still had a
lover for a husband.

And BO it came to pass that we built our
altar, and set up our household gods, in Mr.
Barry's old home ; and though at first sad re-
colleoUons clustenid about ttiat hearth-stone,
and we needs must think sometimes of those
who sinned and suffered there, aa time rolled
on, the happy present shut out the past, and
the meny voices of our children drowned th«
sad notes of memory.

Yes, we are very happy. My dear mother
sheds the light of her chastened spirit over
our home, bhe seems a younger woman to me
to-day ttian when, in the old brown honaa on
the outskirts of the village, dispiritsd and
brokei»-httarted, she diagged her wmkj nmad

TBI FAMILY DOCTOR.

of daOj toil And well the m^j\ for the
trouble that io tboee earlier days lurrowed her
brow Mid diitmed ber eje bM paMed away ;
tine has aoftened her regreta, and the comfortii
of religion bare brought aweet peace to her
ao.il. My brother and akter are growing np ali
that her heart can wiBh. They make the Louie
merry with beir childitih nporte, and my little
one* Join their tiny roicea to thomasic, and roll
and tumble on the gnwa the liTelong summer
day.

These little ones, to her great delight, cling
to my mother more than to me ; and it is a
sweet picture to see her in ber own cosy cor>
ner, my baby boy on her knee, and his sister
on a footstool at lier feet, listening, with rapt
attention, while she tells them about the little

" do yon wish I bad giren you to the Olalrsf
You would be a gentleman's son doiT; with
plenty of money in your pocket"

'* * A gentleman's son I ' " repeated my bro-
ther, scornfully. " I don't want to be a gen-
tleman's son, loafing about with my hands in
my pockets. I want to work for my liTiog,and
be a man."

" Good for you, Willie," said my husband ;
and 1 think wy mother feels no farther fear
that Mrs. Clair's predicted curse will fhll upon
her head.

After Mrs. Barry's death her husband offer-
ed to provide Huldata with a comfortable
home ; but nothing oould induce her to give
up ter wandering life. So slie came and went
as she pleased ; but she had lost much of her

blaok^yed, curly-beaded boy who died so i former vigor, and year by > ear we saw that
long ago. Then my Lisaie<— Frank must needs j she failed. She felt, herself, that she had
call our only daughter after me, though there i little left to live for, when her hope, her love,
are so many prvtiier names for girls -says, jber pride^ all liy buried La Glara Barry's
** Now, grauduia, sing Johnny's ' Die no j grave.

more,' " and my angul brother's fkvorite hymn \ It was a ffreat Joy to Mr. Ba' ry when his son,
comes softly to my ears. So the glory still \ af^r coDcluiding Us studies, decided to take
streams from that little grave. ' up t is venidvaim and practise medicine in his

Yes, we are very happy. My husband is I native town. I kuow that he was iufluenoed
away all day ; - he is a great driver, and the : in oomin^c to this decision by bis filial attec-
welght of tbe business fells on his shoulders ; i tic > and ilesire to gratify his father's every

—but in the evening he Joins us, and in the
bosom of his femily, forgets all his cares. He
frolics with the baby and plays with the child-
ren, the veriest child of them all, and gains
strength and courage, he says, by his home
happiness, for the toils of another day. To
make tbis home beautiful, to be indeed to
him ** the angel of the house;' is the height of
my earthly ambition ; and the Joy that fills
my breast as I read daily in the glance of his
proud, loving eyes that I am successful, only
happy wives can know. My " woman's right "
is to love my husband, and be loved by him.
Morning and evening from our happy, Obris-
tian fiiesidetoes up a tribute of gratitude to
the Oiver of every good and perfect gift,
from whose hand all these blessings flow. In
our luxurious home, fevored and prosperous
as we ue, we love to give of our abundance to
those who are in' need ; for we remember that
the sun was not always bright in our heaven,
and the thought of our former poverty and care
makes us, 1 think, pitiful and laige-hearted
towards others.

My brother Willie is a sturdy boy, with a
perfect physical development, and a spirit as
independent and self-reliant as his mother's
own.

One evening, when he was about ton years
old, we were all sitting round the fire, chat-
ting cosily together, when something remind-
ed me of an episode in the boy's early life,
and, hidf playfully, hall tearfully, I remmded
mother of tiie time when she " gave away the
baby." With boyish curiosity, WilUe asked
what we were talking about, and my mother
gave him the oatliaw of the story.

« WllUe," she Mid, when the had flnisbed.

wish ; fur he was ambitious, as a young man
juHt Htarting in his profeHsion, and desired a
wider field of usefuluess than oarquiet vill ige
afforded. But Mr. Barry was greatly attacht^
to the place, though It was Uie scene of his
sorrows. Old people dislike a change, and
Mr. Barry is getting to be an old man. His
hair is silver white, and his step slow and
somewhat faltering. But he is fer more be-
loved and respected in the community th a
in the balmiest days of his prosperity, for his
ear is open to every cry of distress, and his
ample means are given freely for the further-
ance of every good cause. All that lemains
of his pride shows Itself in his affection for
his only remaining child ; anl it is beautiful
to see tiie filial devotion with which his love
is recompensed.

Blessings on Sam Barry's bead!— for I
must call him so still, though he has long
since grown to man's estate, >s accomp ished
and scholarly, and a well-established pbybi-
cian in his native town. But he is fresh,
simple, and straightforward as of old : bis love
of fun and frolic chastened and subdued by
contact with the sober realities and distresses
of life, but sparkling and buovant still, and
possessing all the good qualities that made
him my fevorite when a boy, united to nobler
and higher Christian virtues.

Yes, blessings on Sam Barry's head I His
life is not easy. Night and day, in summer
and winter, in rain and sunshine, through
frost and snow, he goes his rounds a feitbful,
hard-working country doctor. ** But verily he
has his rewud " Ha osn scarcely walk the
streets without hearing his own pridsen, or see-
ing them written in grateful eyes. ' He addom

TBI BAORinOl.

6ft

Uet down to ilaep withoat th« contciontnew
thftt during the day he hM reliered dittnM,
and adminiiUsrad help and comfort to hie
fellow-orektaree. For ueeful liree lATed,
nndor Ood, hj hie wfttchfulneeeand ekill, men
pritite him, and from dving lipe he often hear*
word* of grateful affection and tender farewell.
Tee, bleealnga on the noble, ekilfal, tem-
petaaoe, ObriaUan doctor I

' CHAP. XZI.

TD lAOBinoi. f

■ How Is tbettrongitafl broken, and tbe beau-
tlfttl rod I '

Dr. Sharpe after many years of ■ncceaifol
practice, gimdoallyloet his popularity. I never
heard his medical skill doubted ; but people
said he was grow ng careless and negleotfkil of
his patients ; that tb« promptitude and decision
which, contrasted with old Dr. Burton's deli>
beration,made him, woen he first eame among
us, extremely popular, were succeeded by a
selfishness and love of ease that often left his
patients suffering for want of attention. It
was whispered, as the cause of this change,
that the doctor drank too much wine with his
dinner ; and though never seen intoxicated, —
" to drink and be sober" was one of his fbvoiite
axioms —there were times when his head wa«
not so clear, or his hand so steady, as they
needed to be in a profession tliat, beyond all
others, requires coolness, skill, and clearness of
intellect.

These complaints were greatly to Dr. Barry's
advantage. The young man, after years <Mr
(latient up-hill labor in his profession, was
Kradually working his way into practice
Tat Dr. Sharpe held the pre-eminence, and the
rumors against him assumed uodefinit« form
niitil he was guilty of a piece of mal-practice
tfo utterly stupid and inexcusable in one of his
knowledge and experience, and so dreadful in
its results, as to draw upon him the indigna-
lion of the whole community.

Mr. Blliott was suffering f^om a severe at-
tack of neuralgia, paying the penalty of over
taxiug his nerves and brain, and Dr. Sharpe
was his attending ihyuician. The fourth
morning of his iilneas, I called to inquire for
him; and his young wifu— only eighteen
months before, Mr. Elliott brought h s bride
to the parsonage— met me with a frightened
face

" He f s not nearly as well." she said ; " he
has had ta o dn>adful turns this morning, Uke
■pHsmn, and is in great distress all the time.
Dr. Sharpe is out o' town, and will not return
till noon. I really don't know what to do
fur bim. Dear Mrs. Stanley, can you stay with
meT"

"he was a timid little bine-eyed woman,
nervoos, and onused to nursing tbe lick ; and

I 1000 discovered that she was quite halplest
in liar husband's ohamber.

** I have sent fbr Dr. Barry," she said ; <' bat
he is so yonng I don't like to trust him. O, I
wish Dr. Sharpe was here I"

My fiiat gknce at Mr. Elliott told me ha
needed help, and that speedily ; and a moment
after, with a feeling of great relief I heard Dr.
Barry's quick step in the hall. He examined
the patient carefully, and though I watched
his f *ce, it betrayed no emotion. Who ever
learned anything from a doctor's face when he
cared to conceal his feelings f Then he tam-
ed to Mrs. Blliott.

" What has your husband taken this morn-
ing f he inquired.

"Only a little gmel, doctor, besides his
medicine. Dr. Sharpe was her* yesterday, soon
kfter dinner, and said he was doing well. He
sat down and wrote a prescription, but told
me not to commence giving the new medicine
till this morning, beoanse he might not rest
as well after it."

'* Let me see tbe modkine," said Dr. Barry.

He shook the bottle, smelt and tasted its
contents. " How mnoh has he taken of this 7"
he inquired.

" Not more than three or four doses, doctor.
I commenced giving it to him early this morn-
ing. He vomited dreadfnlly after taking the
first dose.*

"I must see the presoription," said Dr. Barry.
" Will yon send for ft at onoet Stay— I can
go quicker myseli'." He hurried from the
room.

I could not in the least understand these
proceediDgs, and Mrs. Elliott exclaimed,
'<How strangely be acts I O, I wiah Dr.
Sharpe would come I"

Dr. Barry was back in a moment, for the
drug store was Just round the comer. He
was breathless from the haste he had made,
but did not pause an instant to recover him-
self. He flew to his case of medicines, and
for the next two hours worked as I never saw
a man work before. He administered power*
fnl antidot<>fl and *?metics, using )he stomach-
pump freely ; and vvbeu no relief was obtain-
ed, the distreflB continuing, acoompanie'i by
gr'>at faintnesH and exhaustion, and the diffi-
culty o< breathinflf increasing every moment,
he resorted to artificial respiration. He work-
ed silently, except m from time to time he gave
me orderB bow to help him, in a low, stem
voice. Of Mrs. Elliott's repeated exclama-
tions. *' 0, I wiRh Dr. 8harpe would come I"
he took no notice. Before he ceased his
ertorts, I felt that he was uselessly torturing a
dying man, and I whispered to him my fears.
He gave me a look of despair and rage I shall
never forget.

Dr. Sharp<t came at length, entering with his
noiseless step. " And how are we ^s morn-
ing ?" he commenced to say, bat stopped short
on seeing the yonng doctor.

'< Dr. Sharpe," said Mra. ElUott-i

TB4 Wma»J DOOVOB.

,lk*tB* ■0fiurlhar,fMrDr.Bvnr-«UidUa
\f tkt Am, nd led him tnm th« «m>bi.

" Wlu* doMthia BMuir Mid Dr Bhwpf, in
Mtnil^Mftl.

for • moBMBt th* yoang aun ooold flad
M w«ds to i*plj. B« ■tlU nMMd IbMdoe-
toe*! wa, Md IMa «7m taMj bkMd with

"What doM

A doM tbla smmT* rapoated Dr.
Shaipc^ •agtUjf and toying to nloaM hifl»>
Mir.

«'It MMBS," Mid Bam BaRTi^aod tha woids
oaaa batwarn his mi taath,—" thai jcn an
dthar a Hoandnl or a fooL Ton have girea
that lioh aaa. in Hum or foot doaM^ poiMn
anoogh to hill an ox."

AOOgl

" Yea pappy I" mM Dr. Bharpa, hi* ihM mat-
pla with raga, "how dara yon um tooh lan-
goiga to ma t*

"Look haia." aald Dr. Bany, drawing a alip
orpaparflromhiapoahol and throating It oIom
to tha dootor'a fiMa; "faad yoor own writing
»wili yooT and toll na what yotf maant by
pmar Ung an oonoa of daadly polaon, to^^ba
gtvatt' in twalva doaaa."

Dr. Sharpa ftamUad in hia pocket for hia
apaetaoloa. "OnnoaP aald he; "thara'a no
oonoa aboot It I praaoribad a drachm of
Temimm virfdo, t^ be given In dMM of five
gralaa aaeh." Heperoaad the paper oarafnlly.
<*I daolaieJ' aaid he, changing color, "It la
oonoa^ hot I meant drachm."

" In Qod'a name, then, If yoo maanft drachm,
whydida^yooaaydiaohmT Too fool I Have
yoo praotiaed nmdlcine thirty 7Mra, and do
yon amka aaoh a blnndar m to writo oonM
when jnm meant diachm f

Dr.raarpa wMtoo mnoh frightened to keep
op a ahow of anger.

•ItwaaaaUpof thepenoil,''hewid« "I
declare I don'taM bow I did it. either."

" I do," aald Dr. Barry. " Too were drank,
air I Ton make yoor boaal that no man
erar mw yoo the wotn for liqaor; bat yoo
' wrote that preaciiptl^ wlmn yoor peroeption
WM inaoonrale, yoor rasao^lng flwoltlM ob-
aoora, and voor whole bndn oonftiaed by the
wine yon drank with 7 oor dinner: and in tha
eight of Ood^alr,v^ were dronnl For all
the wealth of Oallfomla I wonldn*! pot my
Bool in joor wol'a atead to<lar, for before
God yon are goilly of the blood of that Jnal

He woold have aaid mora, for Sam Barry'a
blood waa op : but I tooohad hia arm, and ha
obaoked bimwlt

" Ton are right, LInie," ha aaid, nnowaoU
ooaly aalliagma by theoid name; "^thla la no
plaN 4or nngiy worda, and lib» man'a oonaoU
Mtoa^ mbahaa one, will my harder thinga than
I can apeak.-*l!low go, and look at yoor wori^
yovoawnid."

Or* Bharpa al thai mooMnt deeenred the
name. HaaloodBpaeohleMbefiMehiaaooaaeri
the paper oontaining tiM pcoof of hit gi
ahak^teMahoad.

Ha rooaad bhnaelf with an effort.

"Oome,"haMld. '•Wbydoweatondherat
WewiUmvehimyei"

"It la what I have beea tniag to do,"
aaid Bam Bany, diyly, "for Uia laat two
bnnra."

Whan wa r*«ntored the akk-rooaDt, Mm.
CUlotl ap*^ forward to mMt oa, aad, eliag*
ing to Dr. 8harp«/a kne«a, aobbad oot, " O
doctor. Mve him I Mve him I "

▲t that moBMnt I pitied Dr. Bharpe. He
harried to the bedalde, gave one look al tha
alok own, aad tomed away.

" Doctor, ia U deathr aaid Mr. Elliott,
calmly. ^

He made m nply, and, after a mooMntfa
allanN, Dr. JBuiy anawoad Ibr him.

" II la dai^"

" Oodfa wiU be dona," aald tha miniator.

Dr. Barry bant OTor him. The fierce anger
waa all gone ficom hit thee. Hia tooch wm u
gentle and dalkato m a wooMn'a and hia fo»>
toTM beaatlfal in Ibair expraaalon of tendeiw
nan and oompMaion.

"Oan I do anything Ibr yooT" he aaid.
" Axe than aaiy diraoticn* yoo would like to
give abool yoor aflUn T "

The dying man looked op with a amile.

" AU Mttiad long ago^" be Mid. "I }iave
hoi 1 ft worldly boalneu for an hour like thia.
0, hoah, my darling I" -to the poor young
wifo. "Try and bawr It m well m yoo can.
Renumber we have an eternity to apead to-
gether.*'

• • • •

When all wm over, I heard Dr. Bhnrpe
apmhing eameatly. In a low voice, to Dr.
Beny, who heard him >n contemptoooa •!•
lance, and, when he had flnlahed.TCpUed, with
a atiir bow, **I ahall My nothing, air." I
underatood then that he waa plcogiDg the
young doctor to Moreoy ; but he might have
apared hiniMlf the humiUatioa. When Dr.
Bany ran to the drug atora, and demanded the
preacriptlon made up the prevloua evening
for Mr. BUlelt, Ua urgency admitted of m
li^le delay thai no oopy of it wm taken, aor
did the druggiat atop even to read tha bontoata
of the paper ; but hia onrioaity wm eioited by
the MgemcM of the young doctor, and he
queationed tha dark who prapMod uie medi-
cine. The boy raaumberad putUtg up an
ounoe of veratram viride " Wm ha aure that
itwMan ouaoer "Ym; for he thought it
waa alarge quantity, and lookeda aeccodtime,
to am If ha wm right."

" Then," aald the droggiat, very inoantioualy,
" Dr. -Bhaiq^ hM made a miatake : and if Mr.
BlltotlhM taken thM medicine, lie ia a dead

Them wem people lounglnipaiboioi the atora,
and the newa hew lika wlhiAre ; and when Dr.
Bharpe left th^ honm of ia vietim, the mia>
take and ito dreadAil oonaeqMnoM were known
fo half tha Tlllaga

A mMm dafw oemM with atutUag power

THl BACRinOK.

*c a oommaBify. XspeoUly in • quiet vil-
lage like oare, wliere there »m little to rmrj
the aoaotony of erery-day life, the unexpect-
ed nimoTal by de«th ot the hunbleet dtisen
would be noticed nnd felt by ill. But when
• mm lilie Mr. Elliott, for many yenn •
resident among ni, beloved and revered for
hie many exoollenotee, rendered prominent
by hie holy profeealon, and peiaonally known
to most of the people living in the pUoe, is
cut down by a single stroke, it is not strange
that the town shtrald be moved to its found**
tions.

His death was felt to b* an overwhelming
calvnity. A settled gloom hung over the vil-
lage. Business was, in a ineaaive, suspended,
lu the famWies of his own congregation there
was great weeping and lamentation. Men,
wom-n, and children thronged the par:onage,
Ungesing about, trying to learn the sad parti-
cttUn, and then, seatiiag themselves, silently
remained in the same position for hours.
Here and there little groups gathe^vd at the
comers of the streets, and talked together in
low tones ; but the general feeling seemed too
deep to be expressed, and there was upon
many Cues a look of stern, suppressed indig-
nation. ■

His unfinished sermon, and the pen so re-
loctantly laid aside that first day of his illness,
lay upon his study table. His books of refer-
ence, open and scattered about ; the Greek
Testament he used at his private devotions,
close at hand; the little memoranduji-book,
where^ In a late entry, he reminded himself of
a pastoral call to be made, a plan for good to
be carried out, a poor perton visited,-HUl these
told of Us busy, crowded, useful life ; of the
" purposes broken off," of *^ a sun gone down
T/iiile it was yet day."

We buried him on a still, bright, summer
afternoon. Over the doorstep his feet had
trodden so manv times, going in and out, in
his (Uthful ministrations, they bore him;
down the gravel walk he was wont to pace in
tne early summer morning, meditating upon
his next Sunday's sermon ; through the usual-
ly busy street, now silent as the grave, where
in every store his fitce, and voice, and the grasp
of his hand were fiuniUar ; past the green where
he uied to pause and watch the boys at their
pl», onteriog into the excitement of the game,
and applauding, with voice and hand, the
little fellow who stmck the best ball ; and
then slowly, at the call of the £uniliar bell,
up the hill to his own church, where only the
last Babbath he preached to us from these
words : '* Here we have no continuing city,
but we seek, one to eome.'*

He never ascended that hill so slowly before.
Many times he has passed us on our way, with
a quick, eager step, fresh from his stody, his
fiwe aglow with enthusiasm, in haste to de-
liver his message. Ooming down after the
■ervio^ grieved, parh^s, at the inattention
«f sene of his hsaren, and, In his ielf<depte>

oiftion, ftteling Oat he had fUled to make the
desired impression, I have seen him, with
drooping head and downcast eyes, walk slow*
ly down the hill; but, loving hia work,— It
was his meat and his drink to preach the
Oospel of Christ, > it was always with a
joyous step and a beaming eye that ho ** went
up to the house of Ood." To^y we follow-
ed him for the last time.

Thsy bote him past the leotore-room,->how
many words of prayer «ui exhortation have
we there heard from those dear lipsl -then
slowly up the aisle, till they rested their bur-
den oa the altar, over which, with oluped
hands, he has blessed for ns tne saoramentel
bread and wine. When the casket was
opened, we saw the pale Csoe of our minister
turned calmly up to the pnlpit, ficom which it
had long looked down upon us in love. " And
looking steadlhstly on him, we saw his face
as it baid been Che fsee of an angeL"

At the grave we sang one of hia favorite
hymas, and then, " eardi to earth, ashes to
ashes, dust to dust," we laid our treasure in
the falthfbl bosom of the tomb, •* in the aaiar-
ed hope of a glorious resurrection."

And we oiunforted one another with these
words :—

" We sorrow not even as others which have
no hope. For if we believe that Jeans died
and roae again, even so those also which sleep
in Jesus will Ood bring with hisk

**For this corruptible must put<m incor-
ruption, and this mortal must put on immor-
tality.

** So when this corruptible has put on in-
corruption, and this mortal has put on im-
mortally, then shall be brought to pass the
sajing that is written, Death is swallowed up
in victory.

"0 death, where is thy sting T grave,
where is thy victory f"

Amoi>g the crowd of mourners who pressed
forward to take their last look of the beloved
remains, we saw those whom this good man,
by long-continued efforts and unwearied gen-
tleness and love, had rescued fk'om the power
of an evU habit. His *• Band of Hope" was
there, with temperance badges on their
breasts ; and we wondered as they sang tbeir
sweet hymn, standing about the grave, for the
first time without a leader, whether he who
trained those childish voices, and loved so
dearly to sing with children on earth, might
not have the privilege of training an in&nt
choir in heaven.

There were hard-looking men aft Mr.
Elliott's funeral— men who paid no outward
respect to religion, who never heard him
preach in their lives, but who seemed impell-
ed, as it were, to render this tribute to his
memory. And among the reeiplents of his
charity it was interesting to hear one and
another say, ''He was very geawous to
me, but he ohaiged me not to speak of it ;*
or, •• I am iadiibted to Ua '

THX TAIIILT DOOTOn.

«iiieli I ftm not at liberty to mention." Bat
one poor widow told • etoty, in her homely
wny, that illaitrntei one phase of hia character
ao perfectly that I will relate it

Mr. Elliots came to aee her one day. she
aaid, and when he went oat of the yanl ahe
flaw him look at the scanty remains of her
wood-pile. Very soon came a large load,
which the man who brooffht it said was sent
by a friend. Who this friend was the widow
readily gaessed. Very early the next morn-
ing she was awakened by a slight noise in the
yard, and, on rising and lifting the window-
onrtain a little way, she discoTered, in the
dim twilight of a winter's morning, her mini-
ster, his coat offj hard at work sawing her
wood. "I knew," said the old lady, "the
good soal came at that honr, long afore folks
wunp 'cause he didn't want hJs left hand
shoald know what his right hand was doing,
—and I wouldn't have spoilt the blessing for
him for anything,— so I just crept badk to
bed again, and when it was daylight he went
awny ; bat the next morning he came back,
and so on for three mornings. And I never
told of it, nor so much as tbinked him. But
O, what wood that was 1 The Lord's blessing
was on it. It seemed as though it would last
all winter, and it warmed my heart as much
as it warmed my bones."

While each beautiftil deeds live in the
hearts of his people, can we call our minister
dead?

Qe is not dead, our dear departed friend.
We saw him carried to his narrow bed,
And gricTed Affection cried, "Is this the
endT"
Yet oar hearts whispered, *< JVb, h$ it not
dead."

Gall that man dead who has no name to leave,
Whose aimless life 'tis kindness to forget,

Whose memory is as voiceless as his grave.
0,he\a dead— oar friend is living yet ; —

Living in all the blessed doctrines he has
taught ;
Living in all his bright example shown ;
Living in hearts whose burdens he has sought.
Whose cares and sorrows he has made bis
own.

The orphan and the widow hold him dear ;

The Ohorch is honored by the life he led ;
His prayers, his sermons, all his labors here,

Are living yet 0, do not call tim dead I

There is no dea^h for those who lova our
Lord ;•
Dry all yonr tears, and raise the droo^-ing
eje;_
No death for those who trust in Jesus' word :
Hfle thi^ b^Ueveth Me shall nevei; die."

CHAP, xxn,

omoKxxfl oom Bom to booit.

<'Tbe Rods arejuoti and of our p'oasant Tkea
Make Instroments to iCMirge us.'*

AairtjMorib

When Dr. Sharpe left the parsonage his whole
appeaianoe and manner betrayed the discom-
posure within. He was closely watched, for
the story of his mistake and its oonsequencei
was by this time known to half the town, and
ptvuple peered curiously at him from doors and
windows as he passed, and cursed him when
his back was turned. Quite unconscious that
his fame preceded him, the doctor walked
slowly up the street, his eyes fisstened on the
ground, and an expression of perplexity and
disgust upon his usoidly placid face. Once ho
was seen' to strike his hands together in ap-
parent vexation, as if angry with himself for
the egregious blander he had nuMle. Perhaps,
in his heart, he acknowledged the truth of Dr.
Barry's accusation, and found a little consola-
tion in the thought that his usually accurate
perception was impaired, or for the time ob-
scured, by the moderate or immoderate use of
•• one of the good gifts of Ood. "

However this may be, he was wofally trou-
bled. Dr. Sharpe lived upon the breath of po-
pular applause. Ever since he came among us,
it had been the height of his ambition to win
golden opinions from all sorts of people.
With his bland smile, and soft, ingratiating
manner, he walked the streets, bowing and
shakiog hands with all be met and by various
methods endeavored to curry favor with high
and low, rich and poor. He never once relax-
ed these efforts, or yielded to the indolence and
selfish love of ease which weie really a part of
his nature, till he felt that his object was ac-
complished, and he stood in no duiger of fUl-
ing from the eminence to which he had climb-
ed. Now, indeed, he seemed likely to fall in
a hurry.

He knew perfectly well the position Mr.
Elliott occupied in the community, and that
in proportion to the love and reverence felt
for the victim, would wrath and indignation
be heaped upon the head of his destroyer. It
had been better had Dr. Sharpe killed any
three men in town than Rev. Mr Elliott, and
he was acate enough to know and feel it. No
wonder he shrank from the coming storm, and
forgot to bow and smile graciously to those he
met that black Friday morning. I think, too,
when he reached home, he forgot his favorite
maxim, ** to drink and be sober," for his house-
ceeper reported that he poured down glasa af-
ter glass of wine and brandy, till " he was dead
drunk in his chair," or, as the doctor himself
would have more delicately expressed it, "till
the narcotic influence of the stimulant dead-
ened acd quieted the nervous otrntres and the
brain." Perhaps he comforted himself with
the thought that Dr. Barry was pledged to we-
crecy, and the oaosa of Mr. Elliott's death

OBIOKXNS OOMI BOMS TO BOOST.

DMd nerer bo known ; bat, if to, he wm qaick>
I7 ondvoeiTed, uid hU notorietj nuMla mani-
fMt to him la rtitj plain Inngoage.

He WM oaiied the next day to Tisit • dok
ohild at the bouae of hii friend and patron,
Mn. Olair. Thia ladj, more ■ncoeaafol in her
aecond attempt to adopt a child than in her ftrat
waa to happy to find a bright little orphan boy,
four or five yean old, whom abe made her own.
The child waa aligbtly indispoaed, and the
anxiooa mother aent forthwith for Dr. Sharpe.
When he entered the naraery, the little fel-
low ran to the fkithest oomer of the room, and
both command and entreaty failed to draw
him from hia retreat.

<• Owme and let me aee yonr tongne, my Ut>
tie man," laid the doctor, in hia moat aedoo-
tive tonea, " and then yon ahall ait on nqr knee
and he«r the tick, tick."

" Me wont' laid the boy; " me aamt let on
■oe me tongue, and me samt sit on on knee,
and me won't take on naaty medicine, 'oanae
norsey aays oa'U kill me aa on did the miaiii-
tor. Oo away, bad man I go away I"

Tmly Dr. Sharpe waa *' wounded in Che hoose
of hia friend.*

When he entered the poot-offlce that eren-
ing, where hia neigbbora were congregated,
waiting for their lettera, a aodden ail<*ace fell
upon the crowd ; and aa he pnabed bis way
- forward, ttiere was a backward movement,
that left him standing quite alone in the mid*
die of the room. He would bun shaken bands
with an acquaintance, but the man drew back,
pretending not to obaerre the movement.

While Mr. Elliott lay dead in our midst,
there was no outward expreasion given to the
indignation ao generally felt against the author
of the deed ; but when the last sad offioea were
rendered, and we returned to our homes "as
aheep without a shepherd," grief gave place'
tot a time to fiery wrath. In every house
in the village, on every atreet comer,
and gathering place, there was but one
topic discussed. There were variations in the
details of the story, but I believe the main
fiscte were given eorrectly.

We must except Huldah's verdon. Up and
down the street she went, telling in every
house, with intense enjoyment of the horrid
details of the story, how ** the minister waa
pisened and died in awful flte ; an' don't tell
me," said Hnldah, "about accidenoes, 'oauFe I
don't believe a wordont I know better ; that
eritUr dotu it apurpoH."

I have Been tha prescription that caused so
much mischiet The mistake looks on paper
like a UtUe thing, but it coat a good man hia
life.

Dr. Sharpa rallied his forces, and for a while
fought bravely. There are men in every town,
and women, too^ alaat ready to take a bad
man'a part, and raise the cry of persecution,
espeeially is this true if he be a minlater or a
doctor. It would aeem, often, that the worse
tha CMiia, the more lealoos Ito defonden. If

any one doubte tbe troth of this statement, let
him attempt to reason with suuh a person.
Drive him step by step from his position, till
you tiave left him not one inch of ground to
stand upon, and though you have laid him
flat, be is aa unconvinced, and a hundred timea
more obatinate in hia belief than before the
conteat If your champion for the wrong be
a woman, then are you to be doubly pitied.
A man aometimea knowa when be ia floored—
a woman, luvtr.

" A great fuss about a little thing," Dr.
Sharpe waa heard to say one day to a group of
ilia political friends. " Such mistakes are ex-
ceedingly common, only there is no publicity
given to them. A man takea an overdose of
medicine, and diea. What titen T Is Um at-
tending physician censured T Not at all. He
keepa die little mistake to himself, giving out
that the man waa suddenly attacked by aome
latent disease. Thats the way we manage
thinga in the city, gentlemen. Or a little slip
of the surgeon's knife, a sixteenth of an inch
in the wrong direction, perhaps toucbes a vital
part, and life is destroyed. Who's going to
know it? unless the ,surg«>on tells the story,
which he is not likely to do. The most skil-
ful practitioners are liable to occasional mis-
takes. This excitement, gentlemen, is all
caased by that meddling puppy of a doctor,
who, had he posoessed one grain of profession-
al courtesy, would, when be discovered the
state of the case, have held his tongue, instead
of running after the prescription, and blurting
out the mistake to the whole town."

This reasoning waa not altogether satisfisc-
toiy to hia listenera. It may have occurred to
them that one so well advised as to the best
m'. thod of avoiding the unpleasant consequen-
ces of his mistake might be prone to repeat it,
and that some day a second slip of the doctor's
pencil might consign one or more of his par-
ticular friends to an untimely grave. Public
opinion waa too strong for him. One by one
his friends left him. His practice fell off, and
people who formerly were proud of hia no>
tice passed him without recognition. The
Irish children in the street hooted after him.
Minting him with the name Huldah bestow-
ed— "Piaen Doctor."

At length he could bear it no longer ; and I
think few were sorry to hear, three months
after the death of our beloved pastor, <hat Dr.
Sharpe had sold his pbwie, and was going back
to the city.

The day of hia departure tbere was gathered
about the depot a motley crowd, such aa usual-
ly, in a country village, watehes the coming
in and going out of a train. In addition to
those whoae business called them there, there
waa a plentiftal sprinkling of seminary
girls, loafers, and idle boys, lounging about.
The doctor stood on the platform, impatiently
awaiting the arrival of the train. While h|a
neighbors and acquaintances ehatted fiimiliar-
ly together in groaps, he stood moodily apart,

. I

Tn f AIUX.T DOOTOB.

p«gl«Ct«d sad draimML As fb« timia ouaa
In rff^t, wheeliog nwjettloally ronnd • cnrv*
In tb« KMd, • toU woBum, bant with age and
ivfitmitj, piuh«d h«r wj through the crowd.
Sbeoarma • baakat on her ana, and an old
laath^^boond book waa open in her hand.
She tottered, rather than walked, to that part
tha platform where Dr. Sbarpe ctood the crowd
making waj m her aa aha adTanced. Then,
setting down her baaketi and drawing herself
to her ftall height^ aha pointed at him with
her akinnv finger, and cried out in a Toioe
that, oiaoked and broken as it was, rose
high above tha shrink of the i^proaohing
engine,—

« He made a pit," she screamed, "and dig-
ged it, and is fiOlen into the ditch which he
nvde.'*

" His mischief shall retom upon his own
head, and his violent dealing shul come down
upon hit own pate."

She took np her basket, and disappeared as
aha came. Then was a hnsh, and then some

in the crowd cried oot, "Three groans for Dr. '
Sbarpe I" The proposal was rtceived with
load acclamations, and amid hisses, and cries,
and execrations, the " whiskey doctor " finish-
ed his prof«ssional career in our Tillage.

The nez:t morning, soon after sonrise, the
sexton went np to via cemetery to dig a grave*
As he passed Ute Barry lot, he saw a woman
lying fue downward upon one of the graves.
There was a heavy frost upon the ground, and
it covered the prostrate form as with a man-
tle. It shone upon an immense blac^ bonnet
she wore, glistened in a stray look of matted
gny hair, and lay thick upon her ontstxetched
arm, which crept ronnd the marble head-stone,
and held it in a firm embrace. He gently
lifted the heavy head, and turned her face to
the bright moniing sky. Slw was dead. An
overturned basket li^ beside her, to which a
few withered herbs were dingii^f ; and at a
little distance on the ground lay an old le».
ther'bound Bible and the fragments of a black
bottle.

tpa WD.

CONTENTS.

nrw

I. Thi OyiR-BURDimu) Hiart 3

11. OlTIXO Aw AT TBI BaBT 4

III. Thi Dootob and ma Midioini t

IV. DramHi-TABLi Talk 10

y. Thi Old Hibb Woman 13

VI. Pliabamt MmoBDCs 16

Vn. Trnt LiOHT roou a Littli Obati 19

Vm. Thi Midioini— How it Wobkb 20

IX. Thi Cbuil Lacoh '. 34

X. Blood 26

XI. Thi Disootibt 29

XII. Fboh TBI Mansion to thi Stribt 31

XIII. Mania a PoTtr 34

XIV. « Until Diath do vb Pabt" 37

XV. Thi Hobbdbs 39

XVI. Tbb Third Stage or thb Disbasr 43

XVII. Thb Tkmpirancb MegtiWo 47

XVIII. OcB MnnsTiR 60

XIX. " Isn't it Timk for hy Bourbon ?" 61

XX. From tbb Cottaob to thb Mansion 63

XXI. Thb Saorificb 6S

XXII. CmeKBNS coHB Horn to Boost 69

!»

\L.

WITNESS " STEAM PRINTING HOUSE, MONTREAL.