“When he's himself,” she returned crisply, “he's quite a handsome boy.” “He is?” “Handsomer than the average, anyhow,” Mrs. Schofield said firmly. “No wonder you don't see it--when we've let his system get all run down like this!” “Good heavens!” the mystified Mr. Schofield murmured. “Penrod's system hasn't been running down; it's just the same as it always was. He's absolutely all right.” “Indeed he is not!” she said severely. “We've got to take better care of him than we have been.” “Why, how could--” “I know what I'm talking about,” she interrupted. “Penrod is anything but a strong boy, and it's all our fault. We haven't been watchful enough of his health; that's what's the matter with him and makes him so nervous.” Thus she continued, and, as she talked on, Mr. Schofield began, by imperceptible processes, to adopt her views. As for Mrs. Schofield herself, these views became substantial by becoming vocal. This is to say, with all deference, that as soon as she heard herself stating them she was convinced that they accurately represented facts. And the determined look in her eyes deepened when the “deepoe hack” turned the familiar corner and she saw Penrod running to the gate, followed by Duke. Never had Penrod been so glad to greet his mother. Never was he more boisterous in the expression of happiness of that kind. And the tokens of his appetite at dinner, a little later, were extraordinary. Mr. Schofield began to feel reassured in spite of himself; but Mrs. Schofield shook her head. “Don't you see? It's abnormal!” she said, in a low, decisive voice. That night Penrod awoke from a sweet, conscienceless slumber--or, rather, he was awakened. A wrappered form lurked over him in the gloom. “Uff--ow--” he muttered, and turned his face from the dim light that shone through the doorway. He sighed and sought the depths of sleep again. “Penrod,” his mother said softly, and, while he resisted feebly, she turned him over to face her. “Gawn lea' me 'lone,” he muttered. Then, as a little sphere touched his lips, he jerked his head away, startled. “Whassat?” Mrs. Schofield replied in tones honeysweet and coaxing: “It's just a nice little pill, Penrod.” “Doe waw 'ny!” he protested, keeping his eyes shut, clinging to the sleep from which he was being riven. “Be a good boy, Penrod,” she whispered. “Here's a glass of nice cool water to swallow it down with. Come, dear; it's going to do you lots of good.” And again the little pill was placed suggestively against his lips; but his head jerked backward, and his hand struck out in blind, instinctive self-defense. “I'll BUST that ole pill,” he muttered, still with closed eyes. “Lemme get my han's on it an' I will!” “Penrod!” “PLEASE go on away, mamma!” “I will, just as soon as you take this little pill.” “I DID!” “No, dear.” “I did,” Penrod insisted plaintively. “You made me take it just before I went to bed.”