“Touch not, taste not, handle not.  This is the only safe rule,” said Mrs. Green.

“Yes, I believe it,” returned her husband.—­“The man who never drinks is in no danger of becoming a drunkard.”

For some time, Mr. and Mrs. Green continued to converse about the sad incident which had just transpired in the family of their neighbor, while their little son, upon whose mind the fearful sight he had witnessed was still painfully vivid, sat and listened to all they were saying, with a clear comprehension of the meaning of the whole.

After awhile the subject was dropped.  There had been a silence of some minutes, when the attention of Mr. Green was again called to certain unpleasant bodily sensations, and he said—­

“I declare! this cold of mine is very bad.  I must do something to break it before it gets worse.  Henry, did you get that Irish whiskey I sent for?”

“No, sir,” replied the child, “I was so frightened when I saw Mr. Brooks strike Margaret, that I ran back.”

“Oh, well, I don’t wonder!  It was dreadful.  Mr. Brooks was very wicked to do so.  But take the flask and run over to the store.  Tell Brady that I want a pint of good Irish whiskey.”

Henry turned from his father, and went to the table on which he had placed the flask.  He did not move with his usual alacrity.

“It was whiskey, wasn’t it,” said the child, as he took the bottle in his hand, “that made Mr. Brooks strike Margaret?” And he looked so earnestly into his father’s face, and with so strange an expression, that the man felt disturbed, while he yet wondered at the manner of the lad.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Green, “it was the whiskey.  Mr. Brooks, if he had been sober, would not have hurt a hair of her head.”

Henry looked at the bottle, then at his father, in so strange a way, that Mr. Green, who did not at first comprehend what was in the child’s thoughts wondered still more.  All was soon understood, for Harry, bursting into tears, laid down the flask, and, throwing his arms around his father’s neck, said—­

“Oh, father! don’t get any whiskey!”

Mr. Green deeply touched by the incident, hugged his boy tightly to his bosom.  He said—­

“I only wanted it for medicine, dear.  But, never mind.  I won’t let such dangerous stuff come into my house.  Mother shall make me some of her herb-tea, and that will do as well.”

Henry looked up, after a while, timidly.—­“You’re not angry with me, father?” came from his innocent lips.

“Oh, no, my child!  Why should I be angry?” replied Mr. Green, kissing the cheek of his boy.  Then the sunshine came back again to Henry’s heart, and he was happy as before.

Mrs. Green made the herb-tea for her husband, and it proved quite as good for him as the whiskey-punch.  A glass or two of cold water, on going to bed, would probably have been of more real advantage in the case, than either of these doubtful remedies.