The artist took his time--in slow, surprised sips. "It's good!" he said.
He released the cup slowly.

Uncle William nodded. "I've been overhaulin' your locker a little."

"You didn't find _that_ in it." The artist motioned to the cup.

"Well--all but a drop or two," said Uncle William, setting it down. "A
drop o' suthin' hot'll make 'most anything tasty, I reckon. I'll go out
and stock up pretty soon."

A slow color had come into the artist's face. He turned it away. "I
don't need much," he said.

"No more'n a robin," said Uncle William, cheerfully; "but I can't live
on bird-seed myself. I reckon I'll lay in suthin'--two-three crackers,
mebbe, enough to make a chowder."

The young man laughed out. "I feel better," he declared.

"It's a good pill," said Uncle William. "Must be 'most time for
another." He pulled out his great watch. "Jest about." He doled out the
pill with careful hand.

The young man looked at the bottle. "You haven't many left?"

"Eight more," said Uncle William, rapping the cork into place. "That
'lows for one more fever for me afore I die--I don't cal'ate to have but
one more." He looked about for his hat. "I'm goin' out a little while,"