wall paper, and the tea-urn, and the rocking-chairs with their antimacassars, and the harmonium in rosewood with a Chinese paper-mache tea-caddy on the top of it; even with the carpet, certainly the most curious parlour carpet that ever was, being made of lengths of the stair-carpet sewn together side by side.  That corner cupboard was already old in service; it had held the medicines of generations.  It gleamed darkly with the grave and genuine polish which comes from ancient use alone.  The key which Constance chose from her bunch was like the cupboard, smooth and shining with years; it fitted and turned very easily, yet with a firm snap.  The single wide door opened sedately as a portal.

The girls examined the sacred interior, which had the air of being inhabited by an army of diminutive prisoners, each crying aloud with the full strength of its label to be set free on a mission.

“There it is!” said Sophia eagerly.

And there it was:  a blue bottle, with a saffron label, “Caution.  Poison.  Laudanum.  Charles Critchlow, M.P.S.  Dispensing Chemist.  St. Luke’s Square, Bursley.”

Those large capitals frightened the girls.  Constance took the bottle as she might have taken a loaded revolver, and she glanced at Sophia.  Their omnipotent, all-wise mother was not present to tell them what to do.  They, who had never decided, had to decide now.  And Constance was the elder.  Must this fearsome stuff, whose very name was a name of fear, be introduced in spite of printed warnings into Mr. Povey’s mouth?  The responsibility was terrifying.

“Perhaps I’d just better ask Mr. Critchlow,” Constance faltered.

The expectation of beneficent laudanum had enlivened Mr. Povey, had already, indeed, by a sort of suggestion, half cured his toothache.

“Oh no!” he said.  “No need to ask Mr. Critchlow ...  Two or three drops in a little water.”  He showed impatience to be at the laudanum.

The girls knew that an antipathy existed between the chemist and Mr. Povey.

“It’s sure to be all right,” said Sophia.  “I’ll get the water.”

With youthful cries and alarms they succeeded in pouring four mortal dark drops (one more than Constance intended) into a cup containing a little water.  And as they handed the cup to Mr. Povey their faces were the faces of affrighted comical conspirators.  They felt so old and they looked so young.

Mr. Povey imbibed eagerly of the potion, put the cup on the mantelpiece, and then tilted his head to the right so as to submerge the affected tooth.  In this posture he remained, awaiting the sweet influence of the remedy.  The girls, out of a nice modesty, turned away, for Mr. Povey must not swallow the medicine, and they preferred to leave him unhampered in the solution of a delicate problem.  When next they examined him, he was leaning back in the rocking-chair with his mouth open and his eyes shut.

“Has it done you any good, Mr. Povey?”