He stepped back, grave suspicion in his
glance.
"What IS that?" he asked, in a hard voice.
Mrs. Schofield smiled upon him. "It's nothing," she said. "That
is, it's nothing you'll mind at all. It's just so you won't be so
nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You don't think so, of course, dear," she returned, and, as she
spoke, she poured some of the brown liquor into a tablespoon.
"People often can't tell when they're nervous themselves; but
your Papa and I have been getting a little anxious about you,
dear, and so I got this medicine for you."
"WHERE'D you get it?" he demanded.
Mrs. Schofield set the bottle down and moved toward him,
insinuatingly extending the full tablespoon.
"Here, dear," she said; "just take this little spoonful, like a
goo--"
"I want to know where it came from," he insisted darkly, again
stepping backward.
"Where?" she echoed absently, watching to see that nothing was
spilled from the spoon as she continued to move toward him. "Why,
I was talking to old Mrs. Wottaw at market this morning, and she
said her son Clark used to have nervous trouble, and she told me
about this medicine and how to have it made at the drug store.
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