"Well? Suppose I did?" she said, with sudden calmness. "It was my only chance to save my child."
"Katharine—"
"Wait, Brenton." The doctor spoke as gently as if he had been talking to a tired little child. "Please leave this thing to me; it may save you something, later on." Then his voice hardened. "You admit it, then?" he queried.
Without a glance at her husband, Katharine faced the doctor, her head held high, her eyes and cheeks blazing with anger.
"I am proud to do so," she said, and her voice was hard as steel. "It is my one chance to speak out in behalf of my faith."
"Your faith has murdered your child," the doctor told her harshly.
She answered him with equal harshness.
"The murder lies at your own door. Left alone, I would have saved him. Your drugs have weakened him; your unreasonable doubts have killed him utterly. Between the two of you, yourself and—him," and the little pause was venomous with unspoken hatred; "you have killed my baby boy. I did my best; I took the final chance. But I could not go to seek the help of my own church, and leave you, unguarded, to do your harm in your own way. I did the only thing left to me, when I emptied out your bottle and filled it with water. We are told that no healing can be accomplished, if drugs are being used at the same time."
"Who tells you?" the doctor queried stormily.
She stared at him disdainfully, before she answered,—