“Oh, yes; THAT one. But, dearie,” Mrs. Schofield explained, “I got to thinking about it after I went to bed, and I decided you'd better have another.” “I don't WANT another.” “Yes, dearie.” “Please go 'way and let me sleep.” “Not till you've taken the little pill, dear.” “Oh, GOLLY!” Groaning, he propped himself upon an elbow and allowed the pill to pass between his lips. (He would have allowed anything whatever to pass between them, if that passing permitted his return to slumber.) Then, detaining the pill in his mouth, he swallowed half a glass of water, and again was recumbent. “G'-night, Mamma.” “Good-night, dearie. Sleep well.” “Yes'm.” After her departure Penrod drowsily enjoyed the sugar coating of the pill; but this was indeed a brief pleasure. A bitterness that was like a pang suddenly made itself known to his sense of taste, and he realized that he had dallied too confidingly with the product of a manufacturing chemist who should have been indicted for criminal economy. The medicinal portion of the little pill struck the wall with a faint tap, then dropped noiselessly to the floor, and, after a time, Penrod slept. Some hours later he began to dream; he dreamed that his feet and legs were becoming uncomfortable as a result of Sam Williams's activities with a red-hot poker. “You QUIT that!” he said aloud, and awoke indignantly. Again a dark, wrappered figure hovered over the bed. “It's only a hot-water bag, dear,” Mrs. Schofield said, still labouring under the covers with an extended arm. “You mustn't hunch yourself up that way, Penrod. Put your feet down on it.” And, as he continued to hunch himself, she moved the bag in the direction of his withdrawal. “Ow, murder!” he exclaimed convulsively. “What you tryin' to do? Scald me to death?” “Penrod--” “My goodness, Mamma,” he wailed; “can't you let me sleep a MINUTE?” “It's very bad for you to let your feet get cold, dear.” “They WEREN'T cold. I don't want any ole hot-wat--” “Penrod,” she said firmly, “you must put your feet against the bag. It isn't too hot.” “Oh, isn't it?” he retorted. “I don't s'pose you'd care if I burned my feet right off! Mamma, won't you please, pul-LEEZE let me get some sleep?” “Not till you--” She was interrupted by a groan that seemed to come from an abyss. “All right, I'll do it! Let 'em burn, then!” Thus spake the desperate Penrod; and Mrs. Schofield was able to ascertain that one heel had been placed in light contact with the bag. “No; both feet, Penrod.” With a tragic shiver he obeyed. “THAT'S right, dear! Now, keep them that way. It's good for you. Good-night.” “G'-night!”