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Those were doctor's
orders. I'll kill myself before I let you make me out something
terrible. I never even knew what it was before the doctor gave his
prescription. I'll kill--you hear?--kill myself."
She was hoarse. She was tear splotched so that her lips were slippery
with them, and while the ague of her passion shook her, Alma, her own
face swept white and her voice guttered with restraint, took her mother
into the cradle of her arms and rocked and hushed her there.
"Mamma, mamma, what are you saying? I'm not blaming you, sweetheart. I
blame him--Doctor Heyman--for prescribing it in the beginning. I know
your fight. How brave it is. Even when I'm crossest with you, I realize.
Alma's fighting with you dearest every inch of the way until--you're
cured! And then--maybe--some day--anything you want! But not now. Mamma,
you wouldn't marry Louis Latz now!"
"I would. He's my cure. A good home with a good man and money enough
to travel and forget myself. Alma, mamma knows she's not an angel.


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