Mrs. Stover’s face was still twisted, under the influence of the “Balm”; but her mind was made up.

“I’m goin’ to try it,” she declared.  “I don’t care if every New Thoughter in creation says no.  He needs medicine and needs it right away.”

“The dose,” said Mr. Brown, gravely, “is two tablespoonfuls every fifteen minutes.  I do hope it will help him.  Give him my sympathy—­my deepest sympathy, Mrs. Stover, please.”

The plump lady disappeared in the direction of the sick room.  The substitute assistant lingered and listened.  He heard a shrill pow-wow of feminine voices.  Evidently “New Thought” and the practice of medicine had once more clashed.  The argument waxed and waned.  Followed the click of a spoon against glass.  And then came a gasp, a gurgle, a choking yell; and high upon the salty air enveloping Eastboro Twin-Lights rose the voice of Mr. Seth Atkins, expressing his opinion of the “Stomach Balm” and those who administered it.

John Brown darted out of the kitchen, dodged around the corner of the house, tiptoed past the bench by the bluff, where Mr. Stover sat gloomily meditating, and ran lightly down the path to the creek and the wharf.  The boathouse at the end of the wharf offered a convenient refuge.  Into the building he darted, closed the door behind him, and collapsed upon a heap of fish nets.

At three-thirty that afternoon, Mr. Atkins, apparently quite recovered, was sitting in the kitchen rocker, reading a last week’s newspaper, one of a number procured on his most recent trip to the village.  The Stovers and their guest had departed.  Their buggy was out of sight beyond the dunes.  A slight noise startled the lightkeeper, and he looked up.  His helper was standing in the doorway, upon his face an expression of intense and delighted surprise.

“What?” exclaimed Mr. Brown.  “What?  Is it really you?”

Seth put down the paper and nodded.

“Um-hm,” he observed drily, “it’s really me.”

“Up? and well?” queried Brown.

“Um-hm.  Pretty well, considerin’, thank you.  Been for a stroll up Washin’ton Street, have you?  Or a little walk on the Common, maybe?”

The elaborate sarcasm of these questions was intended to be withering.  Mr. Brown, however, did not wither.  Neither did he blush.

“I have been,” he said, “down at the boathouse.  I knew you were in safe hands and well looked after, so I went away.  I couldn’t remain here and hear you suffer.”

“Hum!  Hear me suffer, hey?  Much obliged, I’m sure.  What have you been doin’ there all this time?  I hoped you was—­that is, I begun to be afraid you was dead.  Thought your sympathy for me had been too much for you, maybe.”

Brown mournfully shook his head.  “It was—­almost,” he said, solemnly.  “I think I dropped asleep.  I was quite overcome.”

“Hum!  Better take a dose of that ‘Stomach Balm,’ hadn’t you?  That’ll liven you up, I’ll guarantee.”