confided to me thus far, and as for his nonsense (as I will be bold to
style it now he is gone) about a medicine of long life, it is a thing I
forget in spite of myself, so very empty and trashy it is. I wonder, by
the by, that it never came into my head to give the Colonel a dose of the
cordial whereof I partook last night. I have no faith that it is a
valuable medicine--little or none--and yet there has been an unwonted
briskness in me all the morning."

Then a simple joy broke over his face--a flickering sunbeam among his
wrinkles--as he heard the laughter of the little girl, who was running
rampant with a kitten in the kitchen.

"Pansie! Pansie!" cackled he, "grandpapa has sent away the ugly man now.
Come, let us have a frolic in the garden."

And he whispered to himself again, "That is a cordial yonder, and I will
take it according to the prescription, knowing all the ingredients." Then,
after a moment's thought, he added, "All, save one."

So, as he had declared to himself his intention, that night, when little
Pansie had long been asleep, and his small household was in bed, and most
of the quiet, old-fashioned townsfolk likewise, this good apothecary went
into his laboratory, and took out of a cupboard in the wall a certain
ancient-looking bottle, which was cased over with a net-work of what
seemed to be woven silver, like the wicker-woven bottles of our days. He
had previously provided a goblet of pure water. Before opening the bottle,
however, he seemed to hesitate, and pondered and babbled to himself;
having long since come to that period of life when the bodily frame,
having lost much of its value, is more tenderly cared for than when it was
a perfect and inestimable machine.