"Stanley, have you any brandy in the house?" suddenly demanded Willard, trying to speak in his ordinary tone; but his companion saw that he was white to his lips, and concluded that he had "probed" far enough for the present. "You are not to have stimulants while you are under treatment," was the quiet but decisive reply. "But, doc, I can't stand it. I really can't. Look!" and he held up a hand that shook like a leaf. "You will be better of that shortly, my boy. I'll take care of it," was the kind reply. "But"--confidentially--"while we are talking of it, wouldn't you be glad to have that habit broken--to be free?" The poor fellow drew in a quick, sharp breath; then, in a hard, metallic tone, he said: "I've thought a score of times I would be free; that I'd end it once for all--take a last drink, you know, with a dose of strychnine in it." Then, tossing back the hair from his forehead, he added, with an effort to be facetious: "I wonder how your science would work on that? I say, Stanley, are you really turning Christian Scientist?" Before his companion could reply, a maid appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray on which a tempting lunch was arranged. Dr. Stanley drew a table beside the bed and deftly placed things so that his patient could easily reach them; then, at his request, went below to join his sister and Dorothy at their repast. The subjects of their recent conversation were not resumed, but, though the physician was in some doubt regarding the impression made on the young man's mind, it was evident that he cherished no resentment. He did not ask for liquor again, either, though there were times when a certain look in his eyes warned his watchful attendant that the old craving was making itself felt and caused him to flee to his "little book" and work vigorously on this first venture, which, with Mrs. Minturn's assistance, he was making in Christian Science. One day, having made his charge comfortable and supplied him with an entertaining book to read, Dr. Stanley sought the companionship of his sister and Dorothy, on the broad piazza, where they now almost lived when the weather was fine. "See! Uncle Phil," cried his niece, the moment he appeared, and holding up some work for his inspection, "mamma is teaching me to fagot and hemstitch, and I am going to make some pretty collars like hers," and the eager tone and sparkling eyes told how deeply interested the girl was in the novel employment. The hitherto sunken cheeks were beginning to assume a graceful contour; the lips had taken on a decided tinge of scarlet, while an unaccustomed vigor in all her movements told of daily increasing strength, and the cheery ring in her voice was like music to loving hearts. The man bent down to inspect the small piece of linen and the dainty stitches, his face all aglow with inward thanksgiving as he praised her work.