Mr. Waring was in bed, and looking very pale and ghastly; and as Valentine saw him, a pang shot through his heart at the thought that, but for the merciful intervention of Providence in averting the consequences of his own rash anger, Oswald Waring might have been lying there--not a sick man, but a dead one! And a secret vow to forsake intemperance, in all its forms, material and moral, was made in Valentine's mind, and registered in heaven. "Is that you, Valley, old fellow? I had begun to fear that you had suffered more than myself, when I asked after you this morning and they told me you were sick. Were you thrown out, also?" "Good Heaven," thought Valentine, as a new light burst upon him; "he does not recollect what happened. He must have been much further gone than myself." "Well, old fellow, why don't you answer me? I asked you if you were thrown out. Don't be afraid to tell me, for you see I'm a great deal better; besides, seeing you there alive and well, I shall not be much shocked to hear of what might have happened, you know. Come! where were you pitched, and how much were you hurt, and who picked you up? Tell me, for I can't get the least satisfaction out of anybody here." "I was not thrown out--I sprang out." "When the horses were rearing? A bad plan that, Val.; that is, if you really did it as you think you did. For my part, I doubt if you know anything more about it than I do myself; and if my soul were to have to answer for my memory, I could not tell whether I jumped out or was thrown out. Bad course we've been pursuing, old boy; like to have cost us both our lives, really has cost me that beautiful buggy--that is ruined, they tell me. Bad course; bad course, Val. Not safe for master and man both to be glorious at the same time. Another evening, old fellow, do you try to keep sober, when you think it likely that I shall be--otherwise." "I never mean to touch another drop of intoxicating drink as long as I live, sir, so help me Heaven!" said Valentine, fervently. "Oh, pooh, pooh! old fellow. Resolutions made with a bad headache, the day after a frolic, are as worthless as the oaths sworn in wine the night previous, both being the effects of an abnormal state of the soul and--stomach. Now, wine is a good thing in moderation--it is only a bad thing in excess. Don't look so dreadfully downcast, old fellow, nor make such dismally lugubrious resolutions. 'The servant is not greater than his master,' says the good Book; and, if I was overtaken, how could you expect to escape? Give me your honest fist, old fellow; those who have had such a d--d lucky escape together might shake hands upon it, I should think," said Oswald Waring, offering his hand.