Thus set upon the right track, Dr. Harvey visited Mrs. Guild and Mrs.

Harmless without delay.

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed those ladies, when questioned respecting the matter, "we perfectly remember talking about your _drinking coffee_, and making such remarks as you have heard through Mrs. Simmons. But with regard to your _drinking liquor_, we never heard the report until a week ago, and never believed it at all."

As what these ladies had said of his _coffee-drinking_ propensities was perfectly true, Dr. Harvey readily acquitted them of any designs against his character for sobriety, and well satisfied with having at last discovered the origin of the rumour, returned to the friendly Mr. Query.

The humiliation of this gentleman was so deep, that Dr. Harvey avoided reproaches, and confined himself to a simple narrative of his discoveries.

"I see, it is all my fault," said Mr. Query. "And I will do anything to remedy it. I never could believe you drank--and now I'll go and tell everybody that the report _was_ false."

"Oh! bless you," cried the doctor, "I wouldn't have you do so for the world. All I ask of you, is to say nothing whatever on the subject, and if you ever again hear a report of the kind, don't make it a subject of friendly investigation."

Mr. Query promised; and, after the truth was known, and, Dr. Harvey had regained the good-will of the community, together with his share of medical practice, he never had reason again to exclaim--"Save me from my friends!" And Mr. Query was in future exceedingly careful how he attempted to make friendly investigations.

ROOM IN THE WORLD.

THERE is room in the world for the wealthy and great, For princes to reign in magnificent state; For the courtier to bend, for the n.o.ble to sue, If the hearts of all these are but honest and true.

And there's room in the world for the lowly and meek, For the hard h.o.r.n.y hand, and the toil-furrow'd cheek; For the scholar to think, for the merchant to trade, So these are found upright and just in their grade.

But room there is none for the wicked; and nought For the souls that with teeming corruption are fraught.

The world would be small, were its oceans all land, To harbour and feed such a pestilent band.

Root out from among ye, by teaching the mind, By training the heart, this chief curse of mankind!

'Tis a duty you owe to the forthcoming race-- Confess it in time, and discharge it with grace!

WORDS.

"THE foolish thing!" said my Aunt Rachel, speaking warmly, "to get hurt at a mere word. It's a little hard that people can't open their lips but somebody is offended."

"Words are things!" said I, smiling.

"Very light things! A person must be tender indeed, that is hurt by a word."

"The very lightest thing may hurt, if it falls on a tender place."

"I don't like people who have these tender places," said Aunt Rachel. "I never get hurt at what is said to me. No--never! To be ever picking and mincing, and chopping off your words--to be afraid to say this or that--for fear somebody will be offended! I can't abide it."

"People who have these tender places can't help it, I suppose. This being so, ought we not to regard their weakness?" said I. "Pain, either of body or mind, is hard to bear, and we should not inflict it causelessly."

"People who are so wonderfully sensitive," replied Aunt Rachel, growing warmer, "ought to shut themselves up at home, and not come among sensible, good-tempered persons. As far as I am concerned, I can tell them, one and all, that I am not going to pick out every hard word from a sentence as carefully as I would seeds from a raisin. Let them crack them with their teeth, if they are afraid to swallow them whole."

Now, for all that Aunt Rachel went on after this strain, she was a kind, good soul, in the main, and, I could see, was sorry for having hurt the feelings of Mary Lane. But she didn't like to acknowledge that she was in the wrong; that would detract too much from the self-complacency with which she regarded herself. Knowing her character very well, I thought it best not to continue the little argument about the importance of words, and so changed the subject. But, every now and then, Aunt Rachel would return to it, each time softening a little towards Mary. At last she said,

"I'm sure it was a little thing. A very little thing. She might have known that nothing unkind was intended on my part."

"There are some subjects, aunt," I replied, "to which we cannot bear the slightest allusion. And a sudden reference to them is very apt to throw us off of our guard. What you said to Mary has, in all probability touched some weakness of character, or probed some wound that time has not been able to heal. I have always thought her a sensible, good-natured girl."

"And so have I. But I really cannot think that she has showed her good sense or good nature in the present case. It is a very bad failing this, of being over sensitive; and exceedingly annoying to one's friends."

"It is, I know; but still, all of, us have a weak point, and to her that is a.s.sailed, we are very apt to betray our feelings."

"Well, I say now, as I have always said--I don't like to have anything to do with people who have these weak points. This being hurt by a word, as if words were blows, is something that does not come within the range of my sympathies."

"And yet, aunt," said I, "all have weak points. Even you are not entirely free from them."

"Me!" Aunt Rachel bridled.

"Yes; and if even as light a thing as a word were to fall upon them, you would suffer pain."

"Pray, sir," said Aunt Rachel, with much dignity of manner; she was chafed by my words, light as they were, "inform me where these weaknesses, of which you are pleased to speak, lie."

"Oh, no; you must excuse me. That would be very much out of place. But I only stated a general fact that appertains to all of us."

Aunt Rachel looked very grave. I had laid the weight of words upon a weakness of her character, and it had given her pain. That weakness was a peculiarly good opinion of herself. I had made no allegation against her; and there was none in my mind. My words simply expressed the general truth that we all have weaknesses, and included her in their application. But she imagined that I referred to some particular defect or fault, and mail-proof as she was against words, they had wounded her.

For a day or two Aunt Rachel remained more sober than was her wont.

I knew the cause, but did not attempt to remove from her mind any impression my words had made. One day, about a week after, I said to her,

"Aunt Rachel, I saw Mary Lane's mother this morning."

"Ah?" The old lady looked up at me inquiringly.

"I don't wonder your words hurt the poor girl," I added.

"Why? What did I say?" quickly asked Aunt Rachel.

"You said that she was a jilt."

"But I was only jest, and she knew it. I did not really mean anything.

I'm surprised that Mary should be so foolish."

"You will not be surprised when you know all," was my answer.

"All? What all? I'm sure I wasn't in earnest. I didn't mean to hurt the poor girl's feelings." My aunt looked very much troubled.

"No one blames you, Aunt Rachel," said I. "Mary knows you didn't intend wounding her."