had failed to accumulate even in his most vigorous days.

To the extent of securing a present subsistence for Pansie and himself, he
was successful. After his son's death, when the Brazen Serpent fell into
popular disrepute, a small share of tenacious patronage followed the old
man into his retirement. In his prime, he had been allowed to possess more
skill than usually fell to the share of a Colonial apothecary, having been
regularly apprenticed to Dr. Swinnerton, who, throughout his long
practice, was accustomed personally to concoct the medicines which he
prescribed and dispensed. It was believed, indeed, that the ancient
physician had learned the art at the world-famous drug-manufactory of
Apothecary's Hall, in London, and, as some people half-malignly whispered,
had perfected himself under masters more subtle than were to be found even
there. Unquestionably, in many critical cases he was known to have
employed remedies of mysterious composition and dangerous potency, which,
in less skilful hands, would have been more likely to kill than cure. He
would willingly, it is said, have taught his apprentice the secrets of
these prescriptions, but the latter, being of a timid character and
delicate conscience, had shrunk from acquaintance with them. It was
probably as the result of the same scrupulosity that Dr. Dolliver had
always declined to enter the medical profession, in which his old
instructor had set him such heroic examples of adventurous dealing with
matters of life and death. Nevertheless, the aromatic fragrance, so to
speak, of the learned Swinnerton's reputation, had clung to our friend
through life; and there were elaborate preparations in the pharmacopoia of
that day, requiring such minute skill and conscientious fidelity in the
concocter that the physicians were still glad to confide them to one in
whom these qualities were so evident.

Moreover, the grandmothers of the community were kind to him, and mindful