"What does she mean, Mrs. Miller?" said the puzzled questioner, turning to his tenant.
"I don't know, sir, indeed," was the reply. "She said that to me, and I couldn't understand her."
"It's thuh poomple, docther. Dawn't ye knoo? Thuh big, flehmin poomple oop there." She indicated the locality, by flattening the rude tip of her own nose with her broad forefinger.
"Oh! the pimple! I have it." So he had. Netty, Netty!
He said nothing, but sat down in a chair, with his bold, white brow knitted, and the warm tears in his dark eyes.
"You know who sent it, sir, don't you?" asked his wondering tenant, catching the meaning of all this.
"Mrs. Miller, I do. But I cannot tell you. Take it, now, and use it. It is doubly yours. There. Thank you."
She had taken it with an emotion in her face that gave a quicker motion to his throbbing heart. He rose to his feet, hat in hand, and turned away. The noise of a passing group of roysterers in the street without came strangely loud into the silence of that room.
"Good night, Mrs. Miller. I'll be here in the morning. Good night."
"Good night, sir. God bless you, sir!"