The doctor was distressed and confounded by this declaration.  He had feared that such was the case; but now it was charged unequivocally.

“I am pained at all this,” he replied, “In sinning I sinned ignorantly.”

But, ere he could finish his reply, the sick man became suddenly worse, and sunk into a state of insensibility.

“If it be in human power to save his life,” murmured the doctor—­“I will save it.”

Through the whole night he remained at the bed-side, giving, with his own hands, all the remedies, and applying every curative means within reach.  But, when the day broke, there was little, if any change for the better.  He then went home, but returned in a couple of hours.

“How is your husband?” he asked of the pale-faced wife as he entered.  She did not reply, and they went up to the chamber together.  A deep silence reigned in the room as they entered.

“Is he asleep?” whispered the doctor.

“See!” The wife threw back the sheet.

“O!” was the only sound that escaped the doctor’s lips.  It was a prolonged sound, and uttered in a tone of exquisite distress.  The white and ghastly face of death was before him.

“It is your work!” murmured the unhappy woman, half beside herself in her affliction.

“Madam! do not say that!” ejaculated the physician.  “Do not say that!”

“It is the truth!  Did he not charge it upon you with his dying breath?”

“I did all for the best, madam! all for the best!  It was an error in his case.  But I meant him no harm.”

“You put poison to his lips, and destroyed him.  You have made his wife a widow and his children orphans!”

“Madam!—­“The doctor knit his brows and spoke in a stern voice.  But, ere he had uttered a word more, the stricken-hearted woman gave a wild scream and fell upon the floor.  Nature had been tried beyond the point of endurance, and reason was saved at the expense of physical prostration.

A few weeks later, and Doctor L—­, in driving past the former residence of Mr. Hobart, saw furniture cars at the door.  The family were removing.  Death had taken the husband and father, and the poor widow was going forth with her little ones from the old and pleasant home, to gather them around her in a smaller and poorer place.  His feelings at the moment none need envy.

How many, like Mr. Hobart, have died through the insane prescription of brandy as a preventive to cholera! and how many more have fallen back into old habits, and become hopeless drunkards!  Brandy is not good for health at any time; how much less so, when the very air we breathe is filled with a subtle poison, awaiting the least disturbance in the human economy to affect it with disease.

THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE.

“I want a quarter of a dollar, Jane.”

This was addressed by a miserable creature, bloated and disfigured by intemperance, to a woman, whose thin, pale face, and heart-broken look, told but too plainly that she was the drunkard’s wife.