“There,” said the doctor, “I guess that will do.  Now let me give you an antidote.”  And a nauseous dose of something or other was mixed up and poured down, to take the place of what had just been removed.

“Do you feel any better now?” inquired the doctor, as he sat holding the pulse of the sick man, and scanning, with a professional eye, his pale face, that was covered with a clammy perspiration.

“A little,” was the faint reply.  “Do you think all danger is past?”

“Yes, I think so.  The antidote I have given you will neutralize the effect of the drug, as far as it has passed into the system.”

“I feel as weak as a rag,” said the patient.  “I am sure I could not bear my own weight.  What a powerful effect it had!”

“Don’t think of it,” returned the doctor.  “Compose yourself.  There is now no danger to be apprehended whatever.”

The wild flight of Jane through the street, and the hurried movements of the doctor, did not fail to attract attention.  Inquiry followed, and it soon became noised about that Mr. Jones had taken poison.

Mr. Smith was just stepping into his wagon, when a man came up and said to him,

“Have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Mr. Jones has taken poison!”

“What?”

“Poison!”

“Who!  Mr. Jones?”

“Yes.  And they say he cannot live.”

“Dreadful!  I must see him.”  And without waiting for further information, Mr. Smith spoke to his horse and rode off at a gallop for the residence of his friend.  Mrs. Jones met him at the door, looking very anxious.

“How is he?” inquired Mr. Smith, in a serious voice.

“A little better, I thank you.  The doctor has taken it all out of his stomach.  Will you walk up?”

Mr. Smith ascended to the chamber where lay Mr. Jones, looking as white as a sheet.  The doctor was still by his side.

“Ah! my friend,” said the sick man, in a feeble voice, as Mr. Smith took his hand, “that antimonial wine of yours has nearly been the death of me.”

“What antimonial wine?” inquired Mr. Smith, not understanding his friend.

“The wine you left here in the gallon demijohn.”

“That wasn’t antimonial wine!”

“It was not?” fell from the lips of both Mr. and Mrs. Jones.

“Why, no!  It was only wine that I had bought for the purpose of making antimonial wine.”

Mr. Jones rose up in bed.

“Not antimonial wine?”

“No!”

“Why the boy said it was.”

“Then he didn’t know any thing about it.  It was nothing but some common wine which I had bought.”

Mr. Jones took a long breath.  The doctor arose from the bedside, and Mr. Jones exclaimed,

“Well, I never!”

Then came a grave silence, in which one looked at the other, doubtingly.

“Good-day;” said the doctor, and went down stairs.