But when Sylvia, left alone with her, held the glass to Edith's lips, she shrank back in terror.
"No, no, no! I don't want to go to sleep—I mustn't—I shall dream!"
"Dear child, you won't—and if you do, I shall be right here beside you, holding your hand like this, and you can feel it, and know that, after all, dreams are slight things."
"You promise me?"
"Indeed I do."
"Oh, Sylvia, you're so brave—you told the doctor you'd taken care of some one that was sick before—who was it?"
It was Sylvia's turn to shudder, but she controlled it quickly, and spoke very quietly.
"I was married for two years to a man who finally died of delirium tremens. No paid nurse—would have stayed with him—through certain times. I can't tell you about it, dear, and I'm trying hard to forget it—you won't ask me about it again, will you?"
"Oh, Sylvia! Please forgive me! I—I didn't guess—I'll drink the medicine—or do anything else you say!"
So Edith fell asleep, and when she woke again, the sun was setting, and Sylvia still sat beside her, their fingers intertwined. Sylvia looked down, smiling.