"Bacon—no 'dear' about it."
"I like to call you 'dear.' Don't your little boy call you so?"
"No."
"Ally! Ally, child!" called the mother anxiously; "come back, darling; you'll get cold."
"I'll take him up," responded Mrs. Bacon; and taking with unwonted tenderness the three-years-old darling, she landed him safely upstairs.
"It's the croup," explained the mother. "He got cold yesterday, out for dandelions—his favorite flower, ma'am. Calls 'em preserved sunshine; saw me put up fruit last fall—there's where he got the idea; though, as to telling where he gets all his ideas, that beats me. The doctor says he's that kind of a child the croup is likely to go hard with. Scares me to death to hear him cough."
"Goose oil is good for croup," remarked Mrs. Bacon.
"Did you ever try it?" asked the new neighbor, innocently.
"Me? No use for it. Got a bottle, though. Have it if you like."
Alas! the doctor's prophecy was true. The fatal disease developed that very night.