"You might help him, mightn't you, Fong Wu?" Mrs. Barrett repeated.
An expression, curious, keen, and full of meaning, was the answer. Then, "I might if he——" Fong Wu said, and paused.
Past Mrs. Barrett, whose back was toward her husband, the latter had shot a warning glance. "Come, come, Edith," he cried irritably; "let's get home."
Mrs. Barrett emptied her cup bravely. "When shall we call again?" she asked.
"You need not come again," Fong Wu replied. "Each day you have only to dampen the bandages from these." He handed her a green-flowered box containing twelve tiny compartments; in each was a phial.
"And I sha'n't have to take any more of this—this awful stuff?" she demanded gaily, giving back the cup.
"No."
"Ah! And now, I want to thank you again, with all my heart. Here,"—she reached into the pocket of her walking-skirt,—"here is something for your trouble." Two double-eagles lay on her open palm.
Fong Wu frowned at them. "I take no money," he said, a trifle gruffly. And as she got into the cart, he closed the door of his home behind him.
It was a week before Mrs. Barrett again took up her rides for the mail. When she did, Fong Wu did not fail to be on his porch as she passed. For each evening, as she cantered up the road, spurring the mustang to its best paces, she reined to speak to him. And he met her greetings with unaccustomed good humor.