“I can’t get it in Port Lenox,” he added; “but Chamberlain at Mooreville has it. You might send up by the stage to-morrow morning and get some and try it.” “Write down the name of it, Doctor.” The doctor did so. Without another word Abner Pickett took the slip of paper and left the room. He hurried to the barn and summoned Gabriel. “Here,” he said, “help me to hitch up, quick! Take the team and the light cutter. You go to Mooreville to Chamberlain’s, as fast as the two horses’ll draw you, an’ back again. Get three dozen bottles of the stuff that’s written down on this paper, an don’t waste a minute, as you hope for Heaven!” Gabriel obeyed the order to the letter. He saved neither the horses nor himself. At dinner time he was back again with the effervescent water. Abner Pickett was so pleased with the haste made, that he asked it as a special favor that Gabriel might go in to see Dannie. “It’s Gabriel,” said Aunt Martha. “He brought you something from Mooreville, something to drink. Here it is in the glass. See how it sparkles!” “And may I drink it from the glass?” “Certainly.” She raised his head gently from the pillow and held the tumbler to his lips. When he had swallowed the liquid he turned his grateful eyes on Gabriel. “Thank you!” he said. “Thank you, very much. That--was so good--you were always--doing nice things for me--Gabriel.” And Gabriel, not daring to trust himself to reply, turned and left the room. When he was able to control his voice, he said to Abner Pickett:-- “They tell me he thinks he’s in the drifts a-goin’ from the poor-house to Mooreville, an’ that the snow’s a-smotherin’ ’im. You tell ’im the road’s all clear now. Tell ’im I went by there a-flyin’. Tell ’im a baby could walk through them drifts now without any help. Maybe it’ll sort o’ relieve ’is mind on that p’int.” The old man looked up at him grimly: “Gabriel, you’re a--God bless you, Gabriel! Get to your dinner.” But Dannie’s dreams were not all of his journey through the storm. He often thought he was with his father. And always some one came between them and forced them apart and compelled him to go away. It was pitiful at these times to look upon his distress. It required all of Aunt Martha’s power of persuasion to induce him to believe that his imaginings were not realities. And if, at last, he was made to realize that his father was not with him, he would turn his head wearily on his pillow and sigh with disappointment. One morning Aunt Martha called the doctor aside and spoke to him very earnestly. “Yes,” he replied; “yes, certainly. He must do it.” He went out into the sitting room where Abner Pickett was pacing up and down the floor.