She led him into the next room, where a formidable array of bottles and boxes almost covered a large table. He looked them all over, carefully, scrutinising the names on the druggist's labels, sniffing here and there, occasionally holding some one bottle to the light, and finally, out of sheer youthful curiosity, counting them.
Then he laughed—a cheery, hearty laugh that woke long-sleeping echoes in the old house and made Allison smile, in the next room. "It seems," he commented, "that a doctor has to leave a prescription as other men leave cards—just as a polite reminder of the call."
"What shall I do with them?"
"Dump 'em all out—I don't care. Or, wait a minute; there's no rush."
He went back to Allison. "I see you've got quite a drug store here. Are you particularly attached to any special concoction?"
"Indeed I'm not. Most of 'em have hurt—sinfully."
"I don't know that anything has to be painful or disagreeable in order to be healing," remarked the young man, thoughtfully. "Would you like to throw 'em all out of the window?"
"I certainly would."
"All right—that'll be good business." He swung Allison's bed around so that his right arm rested easily on the window sill, requested the nurse to wheel the drug store within easy reach, and rapidly uncorked bottle after bottle with his own hands.
"Now then, get busy."