be wondered at that they get mad. What he needs is some sort of
soothin' medicine, and I only wish 'twan't so fur over to home. I've got
just what he needs there."

"I was thinking--" began Brown.

"What was you thinkin'?"

"I was wondering if some of my 'Stomach Balm' wouldn't help him. It's
an old family receipt, handed down from the Indians, I believe. I always
have a bottle with me and . . . Still, I wouldn't prescribe, not knowing
the disease."

Mrs. Stover's eyes sparkled. Patent medicines were her hobby.

"Hum!" she said. "'Stomach Balm' sounds good. And he says his trouble is
principally stomach. Some of them Indian medicines are mighty powerful.
Have you--did you say you had a bottle with you, Mr. Brown?"

The young man went again to the pantry and returned with the bottle he
had so recently found there. Now, however, it was two thirds full of
a black sticky mixture. Mrs. Stover removed the cork and took an
investigating sniff.

"It smells powerful," she said, hopefully.

"It is. Would you like to taste it?" handing her a tablespoon. He
watched as she swallowed a spoonful.

"Ugh! oh!" she gasped; even her long suffering palate rebelled at THAT
taste. "It--I should think that OUGHT to help him."

"I should think so. It may be the very thing he needs. At any rate, it
can't hurt him. It's quite harmless."

Mrs. Stover's face was still twisted, under the influence of the "Balm";
but her mind was made up.

"I'm goin' to try it," she declared. "I don't care if every New
Thoughter in creation says no. He needs medicine and needs it right
away."

"The dose," said Mr. Brown, gravely, "is two tablespoonfuls every
fifteen minutes. I do hope it will help him. Give him my sympathy--my
deepest sympathy, Mrs. Stover, please."

The plump lady disappeared in the direction of the sick room. The
substitute assistant lingered and listened. He heard a shrill pow-wow
of feminine voices. Evidently "New Thought" and the practice of medicine
had once more clashed. The argument waxed and waned. Followed the click
of a spoon against glass. And then came a gasp, a gurgle, a choking
yell; and high upon the salty air enveloping Eastboro Twin-Lights rose
the voice of Mr. Seth Atkins, expressing his opinion of the "Stomach
Balm" and those who administered it.

John Brown darted out of the kitchen, dodged around the corner of
the house, tiptoed past the bench by the bluff, where Mr. Stover sat
gloomily meditating, and ran l