“Hey? Oh, yes! Yes, I've got one.” By way of proof he coughed until the lamp chimneys rattled on the shelf. “Judas! I should think you had! Well, there's 'Pine Bark Oil' and 'Sassafras Elixir' and two kinds of sass'p'rilla--that's good for most everything--and--Is your throat sore?” “Hey? Yes, I guess so.” “Don't you KNOW? If you've got sore throat there ain't nothin' better'n 'Arabian Balsam.' But what in time are you doin' out in this drizzle with a cold and no umbrella? Do you want to--” “Never mind my umbrella. I left it in the church entry t'other Sunday and somebody got out afore I did. This 'Arabian Balsam'--seems to me I remember my ma's usin' that on me. Wet a rag with it, don't you, and tie it round your neck?” “Yup. Be sure and use a flannel rag, and red flannel if you've got it; that acts quicker'n the other kinds. Fifteen cent bottle?” “I guess so. Might's well give me some sass'p'rilla, while you're about it; always handy to have in the house. And--er--say, is that canned soup you've got up on that shelf?” The astonished clerk admitted that it was. “Well, give me a can of the chicken kind.” Mr. Smalley, standing on a chair to reach the shelf where the soup was kept, shook his head. “Now, that's too bad, Cap'n,” he said, “but we're all out of chicken just now. Fact is, we ain't got nothin' but termatter and beef broth. Yes, and I declare if the termatter ain't all gone.” “Humph! then I guess I'll take the beef. Needn't mind wrappin' it up. So long.” He departed bearing his purchases. When Mr. Simmons, proprietor of the store, returned, Alpheus told him that he “cal'lated” Captain Cy Whittaker was preparing to “go into a decline, or somethin'.” “Anyhow,” said Alpheus, “he bought sass'p'rilla and 'Arabian Balsam,' and I sold him a can of that beef soup you bought three year ago last summer, when Alicia Atkins had the chicken pox.” The captain entered the house quietly and tiptoed to the door of the bedroom. Emily was asleep, and the sight of the childish head upon the pillow gave him a start as he peeped in at it. It looked so natural, almost as if it belonged there. It had been in a bed like that and in that very room that he had slept when a boy. Gabe, brimful of curiosity, brought the box a little later. His curiosity was ungratified, Captain Cyrus explaining that it was a package he had been expecting. The captain took the box to the bedroom, and, finding the child still asleep, deposited it on the floor and tiptoed out again. He went to the kitchen, poked up the fire, and set about getting dinner. He was warming the beef broth in a saucepan on the stove when Emily appeared. She was dressed in dry clothes from the box and seemed to be feeling as good as new. “Hello!” exclaimed Captain Cy. “You're on deck again, hey? How's icicles?” “All gone,” was the reply. “Do you do your own work? Can't I help? I can set the table. I used to for Mrs. Oliver.”