t's more excitin'."

But there was no library in Sam's room, and it was very doubtful
whether there were any dime novels in the house. The deacon belonged
to the old school of moralists, and looked with suspicion upon all
works of fiction, with a very few exceptions, such as Pilgrim's
Progress, and Robinson Crusoe, which, however, he supposed to be true
stories.

Soon Sam heard the step of Mrs. Hopkins on the stairs. He immediately
began to twist his features in such a way as to express pain.

Mrs. Hopkins entered the room with a cup of hot liquid in her hand.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"I feel bad," said Sam.

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes, I've got a good deal of pain."

"Whereabouts?"

Sam placed his hand on his stomach, and looked sad.

"Yes, I know exactly what is the matter with you," said the deacon's
wife.

"Then you know a good deal," thought Sam, "for I don't know of
anything at all myself."

This was what he thought, but he said, "Do you?"

"Oh, yes; I've had a good deal of experience. I know what is good for
you."

Sam looked curiously at the cup.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's hot tea; it's very healin'."

Sam supposed it to be ordinary tea, and he had no objection to take
it. But when he put it to his lips there was something about the odor
that did not please him.

"It doesn't smell good," he said, looking up in the face of Mrs.
Hopkins.

"Medicine generally doesn't," she said, quietly.

"I thought it was tea," said Sam.

"So it is; it is wormwood-tea."

"I don't think I shall like it," hesitated Sam.

"No matter if you don't, it will do you good," said Mrs. Hopkins.

Sam tasted it, and his face assumed an expression of disgust.

"I can't drink it," he said.

"You must," said Mrs. Hopkins, firmly.

"I guess I'll get well without," said our hero, feeling that he was in
a scrape.

"No, you won't. You're quite unwell. I can see it by your face."

"Can you?" said Sam, beginning to be alarmed about his health.

"You must take this tea," said the lady, firmly.

"I'd rather not."

"That's neither here nor there. The deacon needs you well, so you can
go to work, and this will cure you as quick as anything."

"Suppose it doesn't?" said Sam.

"Then I shall bring you up some castor-oil in two hours."

Castor-oil! This was even worse than wormwood-tea, and Sam's heart
sank within him.

"The old woman's too much for me," he thought, with a sigh.

"Come, take the tea