“Never mind; go and lie down and tell Timothy to come to me for some medicine before he has supper,” said father, the end of his nose twitching queerly, as it does when he is much amused and doesn’t wish to show it. Martha obeyed. “Take everything belonging to those children and stow it in the barn loft; straighten up the house, make your aunt a good cup of tea, but don’t talk to her,” he cautioned Effie. * * * * * “And what physic is it, Dochtor?” queried cautious Sandy, as father counted eight small white tablets into one paper, and a tablespoonful of white crystals into another, writing the directions on each. “It’s calomel, two grains in quarters, Timothy, and the other is Rochelle salts; it is a cure for several kinds of distemper, and we two’ll not forget to give it to Martha every year towards the last part of July!” Then a twinkle that had been struggling in the corner of Timothy’s least-open eye broke loose and turned into an unmistakable wink. “Timothy,” said father, trying to look stern, “did you suspect the trick that was being played on Martha?” “I didna suspicion—I _kenned_; Potowski bought a bag o’ biscuit like them the bairns had, the night before at the village store! But Dochtor, _mon_, ye’ll never breathe the thought,” he cried, clutching father’s hand like a vice in his alarm. “The woman’s too much to me to risk she’d turn against me, though it’s not best she knows it.” “Timothy, you sly old sinner,” replied father, closing on the gnarled hand, “I will consider both these bits of information as professional secrets!” The grip was returned, and looking first in father’s face, then towards his home, where quiet now reigned, and above which hung a slip of a moon, August’s gift to September, he said solemnly, “Dochtor, if the gude Lord had na been a mon, what _wad_ hae become o’ the warld!” ----- [1] Victoria. IX GROUNDSEL-TREE =SEPTEMBER=—THE MOON OF FALLING LEAVES The summer that old Madam Hale died had been followed by a swift autumn. Frost trod so closely upon the heels of the last thunder shower that the samphire glowed red in the marshes, while there was yet aftermath of clover in the uplands, and shy groundsel-tree garnished her plain summer garb with white feathers, before blue gentian had opened her fringed lids wide enough to show the colour of her eyes. Unusual as the season was, it received scant attention from people of Westover Heights, so absorbed were they in the question of “What will become of John Hale?”