“I must tell you, before I forget it,” he said, “how Uncle Capen nursed one of my patients. Years and years ago, I had John Ellis, our postmaster now, down with a fever. One night Uncle Capen watched--you know he was spry and active till he was ninety. Every hour he was to give Ellis a little ice-water; and when the first time came, he took a table-spoonful--there was only a dim light in the room--and poured the ice-water down Ellis's neck. Well, Ellis jumped, as much as so sick a man could, and then lifted his finger to his lips: 'Here 's my mouth,' said he. 'Why, why,' said Uncle Capen, 'is that your mouth? I took that for a wrinkle in your forehead.” The minister laughed. “I have heard a score of such stories to-day,” he said; “there seem to be enough of them; but I can't find anything adapted to a sermon, and yet they seem to expect a detailed biography.” “Ah, that's just the trouble,” said the Doctor. “But let us go into the house; my wife remembers everything that ever happens, and she can post you up on Uncle Capen, if anybody can.” So they crossed the door-yard into the house. Mrs. Hunter was sewing; a neighbor, come to tea, was crocheting wristers for her grandson. They were both talking at once as the Doctor opened the sitting-room door. “Since neither of you appears to be listening,” he said, as they started up, “I shall not apologize for interrupting. Mr. Holt is collecting facts about Uncle Capen for his funeral sermon, and I thought that my good wife could help him out, if anybody could. So I will leave him.” And the Doctor, nodding, went into the hall for his coat and driving-gloves, and, going out, disappeared about the corner of the house. “You will really oblige me very much, Mrs. Hunter,” said the minister, “--or Mrs. French,--if you can give me any particulars about old Mr. Capen's life. His family seem to be rather sensitive, and they depend on a long, old-fashioned funeral sermon; and here I am utterly bare of facts.” “Why, yes,” said Mrs. Hunter; “of course, now--” “Why, yes; everybody knows all about him,” said Mrs. French. And then they laid their work down and relapsed into meditation. “Oh!” said Mrs. Hunter, in a moment. “No, though--” “Why, you know,” said Mrs. French,--“no--I guess, on the whole--” “You remember,” said the Doctor's wife to Mrs. French, with a faint smile, “the time he papered my east chamber--don't you--how he made the pattern come?” And then they both laughed gently for a moment. “Well, I have always known him,” said Mrs. French. “But really, being asked so suddenly, it seems to drive everything out of my head.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Hunter, “and it's odd that I can't think of exactly the thing, just at this min-ute; but if I do, I will run over to the parsonage this evening.” “Yes, so will I,” said Mrs. French; “I know that I shall think of oceans of things just as soon as you are gone.”