“Away—workin’. He won’t be home till Saturday night!”
As if the hand of death would wait for time, this overwrought girl could think of nothing but the terror of her mother dying with the father not there to know. Her helplessness was pitiful. How they depended upon that father!
“Was the medicine poison?” demanded Gloria watching with terror the twitching of the sick woman’s face.
“Two doses was. And the doctor warned her—”
“Never mind that,” ordered Gloria, “and stop crying. We must do something. What do you give if she is—weak?”
“Coffee,” replied Marty promptly. “It’s on the stove.”
Following Gloria’s lead Ellen got to her feet, lay the baby in its cradle in spite of violent protests, and although the crying still kept up, its intensity was quickly lessened by something stuck in the infant’s mouth.
In a few moments Gloria had the coffee hot and was trying to make the woman drink some of it.
“Here, please,” she begged, with an arm under the frail shoulders, “drink a few mouthfuls—”
How she held the woman up Gloria did not stop to consider. She simply realized that something must be done promptly, and reasoned that the medicine must have been of a sort to relieve pain, therefore a sedative. For this, Gloria knew, coffee might act as a reacting stimulant.