After supper came the medicine—­a dark liquid.  Gwendolyn eyed it anxiously.  Thomas was gone.  Jane opened the bottle and measured a teaspoonful into a drinking-glass.

“Do I have to take it now?” asked Gwendolyn.

“To-morrow you’ll wake up as good as new,” asserted Jane.  She touched her tongue with the spoon, then smacked her lips.  “Why, dearie, it’s—­”

She was interrupted.  From the direction of the side window there came a burst of instrumental music.  With it, singing the words of a waltz from a popular opera, blended a thin, cracked voice.

Before Jane could put out a restraining hand, Gwendolyn bounced to her knees.  “Oh, it’s the old hand-organ man!” she cried.  “It’s the old hand-organ man!  Oh, where’s some money?  I want to give him some money!”

Jane threw up both hands wildly.  “Oh, did I ever have such luck!” she exclaimed.  Then, between her teeth, and pressing Gwendolyn back upon the pillows, “You lay down or I’ll shake you!”

“Oh, please let him stay just this time!” begged Gwendolyn; “I like him, Jane!”

“I’ll stay him!” promised Jane, grimly.  She marched to the side window, threw up the sash and leaned out.  “Here, you!” she called down roughly.  “You git!”

“Oh, Jane!” plead Gwendolyn.

The thin, cracked voice fell silent.  The waltz slowed its tempo, then came to a gasping stop.

“How’s a body to git a child asleep with that old wheeze of yours goin’?” demanded Jane.  “We don’t want you here.  Move along!”

“He could play me to sleep,” protested Gwendolyn.

A reply to Jane’s order was shrilled up—­something defiant.

“He’d only excite you, darlin’,” declared Jane.  She was on her knees at the window, and turned her head to speak.  “I can’t have that rumpus in the street with you so nervous.”

Gwendolyn sighed.

“Take your medicine, dearie,” went on Jane.  She stayed where she was.

Promptly, Gwendolyn sat up and reached for the glass.  To hold it, to shake it about and potter in the strange liquid with a spoon, would be some compensation for having to drink it.

“If that mean old creature didn’t make faces!” grumbled Jane.  She was leaning forward to look out.

“How did he make faces, Jane?” asked Gwendolyn.  “Were they nice ones?” She lifted the glass to take a whiff of its contents.  “I’d like to see him make faces.”

She put the spoon into Jane’s half-empty coffee-cup; then let the medicine run up the side of the glass until it was almost to her lips.  She tasted it.  It tasted good!  She hesitated a second; then drained the glass.

The street was quiet.  Jane rose to her feet and came over.  “Did you do as I said?” she asked.

“Yes, Jane.”

“Now, did you?” Jane picked up the glass, looked into it, then at Gwendolyn.  “Honest?”

“Yes,—­every sip.”