Almost a year rolled over the Cabbage Patch, and it was nearing Christmas again.  The void left in Mrs. Wiggs’s heart by Jim’s death could never be filled, but time was beginning to soften her grief, and the necessity for steady employment kept her from brooding over her trouble.

It was still needful to maintain the strictest economy, for half the money which had been given them was in Miss Olcott’s keeping as a safeguard against another rainy day.  Mrs. Wiggs had got as much washing as she could do; Asia helped about the house, and Billy did odd jobs wherever he could find them.

The direct road to fortune, however, according to Billy’s ideas, could best be traveled in a kindling-wagon, and, while he was the proud possessor of a dilapidated wagon, sole relic of the late Mr. Wiggs, he had nothing to hitch to it.  Scarcely a week passed that he did not agitate the question, and, as Mrs. Wiggs often said, “When Billy Wiggs done set his head to a thing, he’s as good as got it!”

So she was not surprised when he rushed breathlessly into the kitchen one evening, about supper-time, and exclaimed in excited tones:  “Ma, I ‘ve got a horse!  He was havin’ a fit on the commons an’ they was goin’ to shoot him, an’ I ast the man to give him to me!”

“My land, Billy!  What do you want with a fit-horse?” asked his mother.

“’Cause I knowed you could cure him.  The man said if I took him I’d have to pay fer cartin’ away his carcass, but I said, ’All right, I ‘ll take him, anyway.’  Come on, ma, an’ see him!” and Billy hurried back to his new possession.

Mrs. Wiggs pinned a shawl over her head and ran across the commons.  A group of men stood around the writhing animal, but the late owner had departed.

“He’s ’most gone,” said one of the men, as she came up.  “I tole Billy you’d beat him fer takin’ that ole nag offen the man’s han’s.”

“Well, I won’t,” said Mrs. Wiggs, stoutly.  “Billy Wiggs’s got more sense than most men I know.  That hoss’s carcass is worth something I ’spect he’d bring ‘bout two dollars dead, an’ mebbe more living.  Anyway, I’m goin’ to save him if there’s any save to him!”

She stood with her arms on her hips, and critically surveyed her patient.  “I’ll tell you what’s the matter with him,” was her final diagnosis; “his lights is riz.  Billy, I’m goin’ home fer some medicine; you set on his head so’s he can’t git up, an’ ma’ll be right back in a minute.”

The crowd which had collected to see the horse shot began to disperse, for it was supper-time, and there was nothing to see now but the poor suffering animal, with Billy Wiggs patiently sitting on its head.

When Mrs. Wiggs returned she carried a bottle, and what appeared to be a large marble.  “This here is a calomel pill,” she explained.  “I jes’ rolled the calomel in with some soft, light bread.  Now, you prop his jaw open with a little stick, an’ I’ll shove it in, an’ then hole his head back, while I pour down some water an’ turkentine outen this bottle.”