to death," she declared. "You'll tell him how sick
he is, and that he's goin' to die, and such stuff. What he needs is
cheerful conversation and mental uplift. It's too bad! Well, you sha'n't
have your own way with him, anyhow. Mr. Brown, where is he?"

"You two goin' to march right into his BEDROOM?" screamed the irate
Abijah. The women answered not. They were already in the kitchen. Brown
hastened after them.

"It's all right, ladies," he said. "Right this way, please."

He led the way to the chamber of the sick man. Mr. Atkins turned on his
bed of pain, caught a glimpse of the visitors, and sat up.

"What in time?" he roared.

"Seth," said Brown, benignly, "this is Mrs. Stover of Eastboro. I think
you know her. And Mrs. Hains of Boston. These ladies have heard of your
sickness, and, having had experience in such cases, have kindly offered
to stay with you and help in any way they can. Mrs. Stover, I will leave
him in your hands. Please call me if I can be of any assistance."

Without waiting for further comment from the patient, whose face was a
picture, he hastened to the kitchen, choking as he went. Mr. Stover met
him at the outer door.

"Now you've done it!" wailed the little man. "NOW you've done it! Didn't
I tell you? Oh, this'll be a hell of a picnic!"

He stalked away, righteous indignation overcoming him. Brown sat down in
a rocking chair and shook with emotion. From the direction of the sick
room came the sounds of three voices, each trying to outscream the
other. The substitute assistant listened to this for a while, and, as he
did so, a new thought struck him. He remembered a story he had read in a
magazine years before. He crossed to the pantry, found an empty bottle,
rinsed it at the sink, stepped again to the pantry, and, entering it,
closed the door behind him. There he busied himself with the molasses
jug, the soft-soap bucket, the oil can, the pepper shaker, and a few
other utensils and their contents. Footsteps in the kitchen caused him
to hurriedly reenter that apartment. Mrs. Stover was standing by the
range, her face red.

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Brown!" she exclaimed. "I wondered where you'd
gone to."

"How is he?" inquired Brown, the keenest anxiety in his utterance.

"H'm! he'd do well enough if he had the right treatment. I cal'late he's
better now, even as 'tis; but, when a person has to lay and hear over
and over again that what ails 'em is nothin' but imagination, it ain't
to