inclined him to drink incessantly, and ere his mother was ten
yards from the house, he had guzzled the whole brimming bowlful. And
still he called for drink, drink; which his insensate father carried to
him in copious quantities as often as he desired it.

Mrs. Pimble proceeded on her way to the club room. For some reason there
was but a thin attendance. None of the prominent members were present,
and the little company decided to adjourn. Mrs. Pimble hurried round to
Mrs. Simcoe's, to learn the cause of her absence and get the prescription
for Garrison. The lady-doctor had been lecturing for several months in
different towns of the county, and was but recently returned.

Mrs. Pimble entered without knocking, as was her wont, and walked into
the young doctor's office, where she beheld, not the fair, feminine face
of the rightful proprietor, but the ugly, rhubarb-colored visage of the
village apothecary, Dr. Potipher, ensconced in the high-backed cushioned
chair, fast asleep.

She turned back and opened the sitting-room door, and there stood Mr.
Simcoe before a bed, holding a tea-tray, containing several vials and
glasses. Mrs. Pimble started on seeing the night-capped head of Mrs.
Simcoe raised feebly from the pillow, and darting forward, exclaimed,
"Mercy, Sister Simcoe! what has befallen you?"

A smothered wail from beneath the bed-clothes now met her ear, and,
turning down the blankets, she discovered two red-faced, bald-headed
babies, wrapped in swaddling-clothes. She started back aghast.

"What are those things--what are those things?" she demanded,
hysterically, pointing to the infant strangers.

"Simcoe's children!" groaned the pale lady-doctor, turning uneasily away
from the little things that lay squirming and making such grimaces, as
only very young babies _can_ make, in the face of Mrs. Pimble. The
alleged father stood there, chuckling over the smartness of his progeny.
Mrs. Pimble darted one withering glance upon him, and walked away
without another word. She roused old Dr. Potipher, and took him home
with her. Well she did so, for Garrison was much worse than when she
left him, and the doctor pronounced it a case of brain fever, which
would require the nicest care and nursing.

Thus a wet blanket was most audaciously thrown upon the Woman's Rights'
Reform, which was fain to arrest its progress in Wimbledon for a while.
We shall see how long.

CHAPTER XIII.