"You keep your breath to cool your porridge, boy," said the little
parson. "I'm in charge now."

What a queer sort of freemasonry there must be among strong men, Aunt
Jennie, which allows them to say gruff things to one another in friendly
tones. The sick man seemed to recognize the little parson's authority and
lay back, exhausted and conquered.

"I've done all I could," he said.

I was so sorry to hear the tone of discouragement in his voice. He is
just a man, Aunt Jennie, with a man's weaknesses and a man's strength,
and for the moment the latter had forsaken him. I suppose that some of
his self-reliance had gone, for after a moment he smiled at us, and
doubtless was glad to have friends with him and was comforted by their
sympathy.

I could not help marvelling at the efficiency of the little parson, who,
before they had a doctor here, was compelled to do the best he could to
take care of sick people, assisted by his wife. He questioned the doctor,
who wearily told him of some things that might be done for him, but
without appearing to care. Mr. Barnett ran out of the house and up to
Sammy's, returning with some bottles. He looked at labels ever so
carefully and mixed some drugs with water, after which he wound some
cotton on a stick to make a sort of a brush.

"Now sit up a little and let me fix your throat," he said. "Yes, you've
got to take some of your own medicine now, old fellow. Frenchy, you get
behind him and hold him up. The light is poor here; better bring your
candle. Miss Jelliffe, hold it just this way for me. That's good. Now