you say, 'if I could _only_ find it I'd be happy.'"

"Tell me!" he coaxed. "Please tell me!"

She laid a hand on his shoulder. The remnant of the _Montreal Weekly
Globe and Family Messenger_ she held behind her.

"'Tis a cure for Jimmie," said she.

"No!" he cried, incredulous; but there was yet the ring of hope in his
voice. "Have you, now?"

"Hook's Kurepain," said she, "never failed yet."

"'Tis wonderful!" said Jim Grimm.

She spread the newspaper on the table and placed her finger at that
point of the list where the cure of rheumatism was promised.

"Read that," said she, "an' you'll find 'tis all true."

Jim Grimm's eye ran up to the top of the page. His wife waited, a
smile on her lips. She was anticipating a profound impression.

"'Beauty has wonderful charms,'" Jim Grimm read. "'Few men can
withstand the witchcraft of a lovely face. All hearts are won----'"

"No, no!" the mother interrupted, hastily. "That's the marvellous
Oriental Beautifier. I been readin' that, too. But 'tis not that. 'Tis
lower down. Beginnin', 'At last the universal remedy of Biblical
times.' Is you got it yet?"

"Ay, sure!"

And thereupon Jim Grimm of Buccaneer Cove discovered that a legion of
relieved and rejuvenated rheumatics had without remuneration or
constraint sung the virtues of the Kurepain and the praises of Hook.
Poor ignorant Jim Grimm did not for a moment doubt the existence of
the Well-Known Traveller, the Family Doctor, the Minister of the
Gospel, the Champion of the World. He was ready to admit that the cure
had been found.

"I'm willin' t' believe," said he, solemnly, the while gazing very
earnestly into his wife's eyes, "that 'twould do Jimmie a world o'
good."

"Read on," said she.

"'It costs money to make the Kurepain,'" Jim read, aloud. "'It is not
a sugar-and-water remedy. It is a _cure_, manufactured at _great
expense_. Good medicines come _high_. But the peerless Kurepain is
_cheap_ when compared with the worthless substitutes now on the market
and sold for just as good. Our price is five dollars a bottle; three
bottles guaranteed to cure.'"

Jim Grimm stopped dead. He looked up. His wife steadily returned his
glance. The Labrador dweller is a poor man--a very poor man. Rarely
does a dollar of hard cash slip into his hand. And this was hard cash.
Five dollars a bottle! Five dollars for that which was neither food
nor clothing!

"'Tis fearful!" he sighed.

"But read on," said she.

"'In