He went up stairs, careful not to spill a drop of the brimming cup, and
approached the old woman's bedside, where she lay, groaning as before, and
breaking out into a spiteful croak the moment he was within ear-shot.

"You don't care whether I live or die," said she. "You've been waiting in
hopes I shall die, and so save yourself further trouble."

"By no means, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius. "Here is the medicine, which I
have warmed, and measured out, and mingled, as well as I knew how; and I
think it will do you a great deal of good."

"Won't you taste it, Seppy, my dear?" said Aunt Keziah, mollified by the
praise of her beloved mixture. "Drink first, dear, so that my sick old
lips need not taint it. You look pale, Septimius; it will do you good."

"No, Aunt Keziah, I do not need it; and it were a pity to waste your
precious drink," said he.

"It does not look quite the right color," said Aunt Keziah, as she took the
cup in her hand. "You must have dropped some soot into it." Then, as she
raised it to her lips, "It does not smell quite right. But, woe's me! how
can I expect anybody but myself to make this precious drink as it should
be?"

She drank it off at two gulps; for she appeared to hurry it off faster than
usual, as if not tempted by the exquisiteness of its flavor to dwell upon
it so long.

"You have not made it just right, Seppy," said she in a milder tone than
before, for she seemed to feel the customary soothing influence of the