s quickly passed away. Mary was struggling to say something to him
expressive of her gratitude, but before she could put it into shape he
was gone.

The next day brought Mr Tankardew to "The Shrubbery." The old man drew
Mary to him in the fulness of his heart, and blessed her, calling her
his child. "Well, what have the doctors made of you?" he asked, rather
abruptly.

"Made of me?" asked Mary, laughing.

"Yes, made of you, they never could make anything _of_ me or _by_ me;
but what have they made of _you_?"

"You puzzle me," replied the other.

"Did they put labels on all their physic bottles?"

"My dear sir," interposed Mrs Franklin, "I'm thankful to say that our
doctor has prescribed little else than rest and tonics."

"And were the tonics labelled?"

"Oh! I understand you now. Mary has not broken her pledge, she would
take no wine."

"Excellent girl! Of course she was ordered wine?"

"Oh! Yes; and ale or porter too. The doctor almost insisted on it."

"Of course he did; they always do. Ah! Well! Brave girl! You said
no."

"Yes, I felt convinced that I should do as well without beer or wine,
and I have had no cause to regret that I did not take them."

"Bravo! You'll _never_ regret it. You must help us to fight the
doctors: they mean well, some of them; but most of them are building up
the palace of intemperance faster than we can pull it down. `The doctor
ordered it;' that's an excuse with thousands to drown their souls in
drink. I wonder if they'd swallow a shovelful of red hot coals if the
doctor ordered it?"

Summer had now given place to autumn; it was a bright September day when
the above conversation took place. When Mr Tankardew rose to go, Mrs
Franklin and Mary volunteered to accompany him a little way. So they
went forth, and a sweet and pleasant sight it was, the hale, grey-haired
veteran still full of fire, yet checking his steps to keep pace with the
young girl's feebler tread: she, all gentleness and sober gladness, and
her mother happy in the abiding trust of a believing heart.

They passed out of the grounds across a lane thickly shaded by trees,
whose foliage was beginning to change its summer hue for the gorgeous
varieties of autumnal colouring. Then they followed a winding path that
skirted a wide sea of wheat, which rose and fell in rustling waves,
disclosing now and again bright dazzling gleams of the scarlet poppy.
At the end of this field was a stile leadin