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.”
“I don't know,” she whispered. “The bottle was full. I took them all.”
“That is impossible,” I argued, foolishly. “Two grains would have killed
you. One grain, even.”
“I took them all,” she repeated. “I wanted so to die. I thought for a
while that I was dying. Then I became dreadfully ill. I have been so
ill, Anthony!”
All at once a note of relief had come into her voice--as if it meant
something to her, after all, to have me there with her, and to be able
to talk with me.