Annie had placed her pail of water on the door-step and forgotten it in her wish to cheer and help this bitterly wounded spirit.
"Mr. Gregory," she said, earnestly, "you are indeed ill in body and mind, and you take a wrong and morbid view of everything. My heart aches to show you how complete and perfect a remedy there is for all this. It almost seems as if you were dying from thirst with that brook yonder running—"
"There is no remedy for me," interrupted he, almost harshly. Then he added in a weary tone, pressing his hand on his throbbing brow, "Forgive me, Miss Walton; you see what I am. Please waste no more thought on me."
"If yer want any breakfast to-day, yer better bring that water," called the old woman from within.
Annie gave him a troubled, anxious look, and then silently carried in the pail.
"Have you any tea?" she asked, not liking the odor of the coffee.
"Mighty little," was the short answer.
"Please let me have some, and I will send you a pound of our best in its place," said Annie.
"I hain't such a fool as to lose that bargain," and the old woman hobbled with alacrity to a cupboard; but to Annie's dismay the hidden treasure had been hoarded too near the even more prized tobacco, and seemed redolent of the rank odor of some unsavory preparation of that remarkable weed which is conjured into so many and such diverse forms. But she brewed a little as best she could before eating any breakfast herself, and brought it to Gregory as he still sat on the step, leaning against the door-post.
"Please swallow this as medicine," she said.