e! 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.

THE PORTRAIT.

"BLESS the happy art!" ejaculated Mrs. Morton, wiping the moisture
from her eyes. "Could anything be more perfect than that likeness of
his sweet, innocent face? Dear little Willie! I fear I love him too
much."

"It is indeed perfect," said Mr. Morton, after viewing the picture
in many lights. "My favouri