ng."

"Yes," said Theodore, "I can manage. Pliny is up again, you know. But,
doctor, tell me what this sickness was. What was the cause of the sudden
death?"

"Rum!" said the doctor, in short, stern tones. "That is, an over-dose of
brandy was the immediate cause of the fit, and the continued use of
stimulants through many years the cause of the paralysis. It is just
another instance of a rum murder--that's hard language, but it's
true--and the son is fearfully predisposed to follow in his father's
footsteps. I fear for him."

"Pliny has overcome that predisposition at last, I hope and trust. I
think he is safe now."

"They are never safe, I think sometimes, until they are in their
graves," answered the doctor, moodily.

"Or in the 'Everlasting Arms,'" returned Theodore, reverently. But while
this conversation was in progress, there was a more dangerous one going
on up-stairs. Mrs. Hastings had recovered from her swoons, but was lying
in a state of semi-exhaustion in her room. She raised her head languidly
as she heard Pliny's step, and gave her orders for the night.

"Pliny, you will have to take the room that opens into this, for the
night. I am too nervous to be left alone. Dora is going to have the room
on the other side of the hall. She doesn't mind it in the least, she
says. I wish I had her nerves; and, Pliny, I feel that distressing
faintness every few minutes. You may order a bottle of wine brought up,
then pour out a glass and set it on that light stand by my bedside; then
do try to have the house quiet--the utter inconsiderateness of some
people is surprising!"

Had Theodore been less occupied, or been at that moment within hearing,
he would have contrived to have these orders countermanded, or at least
carried out by some one besides Pliny; but he was making final
arrangements with the doctor in regard to meeting him on the next
morning's train, so he knew nothing about that fatal bottle of wine.

"There is barely time for us to reach the cars," said Theodore,
hurriedly, the next morning, not turning his head from his valise to
look at the new-comer, but knowing by the step that it was Pliny.

"I am sorry that we shall have to hurry your mother and sister so. How
are you feeling? Did you get any rest last night, my poor fellow?"

"Feeling like a spinning-wheel going round backward and tipping over
every now and then," Pliny answered, in a thick, unnatural voice, and
then Theodore let valise and bu