George.
Yes, a manzanillo-tree!
Gertrude.
Yes, yes; and whosoever inhales the odor of its blossoms must die. And
do you know what she did? Oh, yes, I did the same--we would go to this
tree, smell of its blossoms, and lay down----
George.
To die?
Gertrude.
To die.
Marie.
Now you can imagine, George, how long ago that must have been.
Gertrude.
Yes, it was long, long ago. But about four years ago, one day Marie
really wanted to die very badly.
[Marie _casts a frightened glance at_ George,
_who returns it thoughtfully_.]
Gertrude.
But we didn't.
George.
No, no, thank heaven. Now, little one, run along and tell papa that I
am here.
Gertrude.
Marie, will you come, too?
Marie.
No; I think I will remain here a little while longer.
Gertrude.
Then I'll stay, too.
George.