Doctor. Why didn’t you come sooner. I told you to let me know of the least change in her condition.
Emma (flatly). I did come—I went for the doctor.
Doctor. Yes, but you waited. An hour more or less is mighty important sometimes. Why didn’t you come?
Emma (passes hand over face). Couldn’t see.
(Doctor looks at her curiously, then sympathetically takes out a small box of pills, and hands them to her.) Here, you’re worn out. Take one of these every hour and try to get some sleep. (He departs.)
(She puts the pill-box on the table, takes up the low rocking chair and places it by the head of the bed. She seats herself and rocks monotonously and stares out of the door. A dry sob now and then. The wind from the open door blows out the lamp and she is seen by the little light from the window rocking in an even, monotonous gait, and sobbing.)
Flame From the Dark Tower
A Section of Poetry
