He wondered casually whom Minnie had been writing to, then in an instant forgot all about it, for he heard her calling him in a queer, desperate voice:
“Chris! Chris!”
He hurried in to her. She had apparently begun to dress and then stopped; she was standing, leaning against the bureau, in a petticoat and a cheap little flannel dressing sack, her hair down.
“Chris!” she cried again.
“What’s the matter? Are you ill? Shall I send for the doctor? Speak! What’s the matter?”
“I know I’m going to die!” she whispered.
He was appalled.
“Die! Minnie, my dear, what is it!”
She collapsed in his arms; not in a faint, simply gave way, in a sort of dreadful limpness. He carried her to the bed and covered her up with a blanket, and stood looking down at her in helpless alarm.
“Shall I telephone the doctor?” he asked.