Nihál Chand was a brave man, and yet, strange to say, he shrank like a child from the pain which his brother thought it needful to inflict. “No, no!” he cried, with an impatient movement of the hand; “such sharp remedies are not required. Do not the healing leaves of Good Intentions grow abundantly in yon thicket? It will suffice to lay them upon the wound; they will soon draw all its poison away.”