“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.