"No! The medicine—look for the medicine."
"Which bottle? The opiate—"
"No. Not the opiate. The other."
Sarah took a bottle from the table, and looking attentively at the written direction on the label, said that it was not yet time to take that medicine again.
"Give me the bottle."
"Oh, pray don't ask me. Pray wait. The doctor said it was as bad as dram-drinking, if you took too much."
Mrs. Treverton's clear gray eyes began to flash; the rosy flush deepened on her cheeks; the commanding hand was raised again, by an effort, from the counterpane on which it lay.
"Take the cork out of the bottle," she said, "and give it to me. I want strength. No matter whether I die in an hour's time or a week's. Give me the bottle."
"No, no—not the bottle!" said Sarah, giving it up, nevertheless, under the influence of her mistress's look. "There are two doses left. Wait, pray wait till I get a glass."
She turned again toward the table. At the same instant Mrs. Treverton raised the bottle to her lips, drained it of its contents, and flung it from her on the bed.