Mary Margaret caught these glances once or twice without appearing to regard them, but they kept her intellect upon the alert, and without knowing exactly what she was to guard against, the good woman felt that harm was around her, and that the evil thing must find her watching. A slight change in her position threw the light directly across the chair upon which the cups and vials used about the sick had been placed, and where she had left her basin of weak tea.
Without having consciously made the discovery, Mary Margaret became aware that the only vial which stood upon the chair had been moved, and that its contents, a pale wine color, had become white as water. Still the vial was the same, and as she bent over softly to read the label, that was also unchanged, a “teaspoonful every hour.” This was what she read and had seen before while searching for drink among the empty cups.
Why was this? For what object had the contents of that vial been changed? Who could have done it but the nurse, and why had she done it? Then Mary Margaret began to ponder over the change in nurse Kelly’s manner—the sudden favor into which she had fallen, and an unaccountable antipathy to give the medicine in that bottle seized upon her.
“Isn’t it time to give the medicine?” asked a low voice from the corner. “It should be given on the stroke of the hour.”
“Yes!” answered Mary Margaret, with a start, “it’s time.”
She turned her back toward the nurse and received the light over her shoulder. A pewter spoon lay upon the chair. She held up the vial, and, pouring a few drops into the spoon, drank it herself with a rash determination to know, if possible, what the drug was before she administered it. It left a strong taste of opium in her mouth; and, quick as thought, she remembered that morphine was colorless, that a few drops would kill, and she had been directed to give that frail creature a teaspoonful.
Mary Margaret shuddered from head to foot. The blood seemed curdling in her veins; her plump fingers grew cold as she clasped the vial. How much had she drank? Would those few drops be her death? No, no, they could not be enough. She felt sure that God would not let her perish there in the midst of her duty.
“Have you given her the medicine?” asked the hoarse voice again from the clouded corner.
“Not—not yet. I—I am pouring it out,” was the reply, and setting down the vial, she hastily poured out some tea into another spoon and gave it to the patient, who smiled gratefully as the moisture crept through her lips.
“Has she drank it?” asked the nurse, starting up as Mary Margaret settled the invalid back upon her pillow.