“Is she out of medicine?”

“Yes, sir.  That’s what I come for.”  With that the young man pulled, with distressed fumblings and jerks, a bottle from his pocket, which he handed to the doctor, who had in the meantime opened the door of one of the cupboards.

The doctor took a large bottle from the cupboard, and filled from that the one which the young man had brought.  Jerome stood trembling, watching the careful gurgling of a speckled green liquid from one bottle to another.  A strange new odor filled the room, overpowering all the others.

When the doctor gave the bottle to the young man, he shoved it carefully away in his pocket again, and then stood coloring more deeply and hesitating.

“Can ye take your pay in wood for this and the last two lots?” he murmured at length, so low that Jerome scarcely heard him.

But the doctor never lowered nor raised his incisive, high-bred voice for any man.  His reply left no doubt of the question.  “No, Mr. Upham,” said Doctor Prescott.  “You must pay me in money for medicine.  I have enough wood of my own.”

“I know ye have—­consider’ble,” responded the young man, in an agony, “but—­”

“I would like the money as soon as convenient,” said the doctor.

“I’m—­havin’—­dreadful—­hard work to get—­any money myself—­lately,” persisted the young man.  “Folks—­they promise, but—­they don’t pay, an’—­”

“Never give or take promises long enough to calculate interest,” interposed Doctor Prescott, with stern pleasantry; “that’s my rule, young man, and it’s the one I expect others to follow in their business dealings with me.  Don’t give and don’t take; then you’ll make your way in life.”

Ozias Lamb had said once, in Jerome’s hearing, that all the medicine that Doctor Prescott ever gave to folks for nothing was good advice, and he didn’t know but then he sent the bill in to the Almighty.  Jerome, who had taken this in, with a sharp wink of appreciation, in spite of his mother’s promptly sending him out of the room, thinking that such talk savored of irreverence, and was not fit for youthful ears, remembered it now, as he heard Doctor Prescott admonishing poor John Upham.

“Know ye’ve got consider’ble,” mumbled John Upham, who had rough lands enough for a village, but scarce two shillings in pocket, and a delicate young wife and three babies; “but—­thought ye hadn’t—­no old apple-tree wood—­old apple-tree wood—­well seasoned—­jest the thing for the parlor hearth—­didn’t know but—­”

“I should like the money next week,” said the doctor, as if he had not heard a word of poor John’s entreaty.

The young man shook his head miserably.  “Dun’no’ as I can—­nohow.”

“Well,” said the doctor, looking at him calmly, “I’m willing to take a little land for the medicine and that last winter’s bill, when Johnny had the measles.”

Then this poor John Upham, uncouth, and scarcely quicker-witted than one of his own oxen, but as faithful, and living up wholly to his humble lights, turned pale through his blushes, and stared at the doctor as if he could not have heard aright.  “Take—­my land?” he faltered.