She shook her head, almost convulsively, and tried to hide her face again.
“What, have you done?” I asked.
I looked more closely at the bureau, dreading what I might see upon it. But there were only the famihar little toilet accessories that I had seen there before. My eyes searched about among them, while I sat there on the bed, while she continued to press my hands, with her own cold ones, against her face.
Then I looked down. On the floor, almost at my feet, was a glass with a little water in it. Near by was a small brown medicine bottle, with beaded edges. The cork was out. A little cotton lay by it.
I picked up the bottle, and turned it over.
It was labeled:
“Poison.” And beneath this, “Morphia,
“Heloise!” I cried. I made her look at me. “Heloise, child! You don't mean—you have n't—”
Her head moved between my hands; and I knew she was trying to nod an affirmation. Then she struggled again to turn her face from me, but so weakly that I held it there without much difficulty. I fear I was employing more strength than I realized.
“How much did you take?” I said. “Tell me—quickly.”