"Heroin," she said. "I got it off a feller I know. I don’t want to think about anything to-night." For an instant the small figure in the long night-dress wavered; then, with a pitiful scream, she ran out of the room and cast herself on her bed. "It’s too much, God!" she cried. "I can’t bear any more. Take me to-night, oh, merciful God!" III Mrs. Kennedy listened in vain all through the night. From time to time she dozed, to wake with a start of fright. She had no knowledge of drugs, only horrible superstitions. She expected Angelica to be changed in some way beyond recognition. Would she be violent--fight and struggle with her? Would she kill herself--set the house on fire? At dawn she waked from a brief nap, resentful to find herself still alive. Sick with apprehension, weary beyond all measure, she went into the kitchen, to see what had become of her child. Angelica was asleep, with her head on the table. Beside her lay her tiny package, unopened. She raised her head and looked at her mother with dark and heavy eyes. "All right, mommer!" she said. "It’s over!" "What? What’s over?" "All of--of that. I’m going to start all over again." "You can’t, Angie. You can’t undo what’s done." "I have," she said solemnly. "I’ve just wiped it out. I haven’t done any harm to any one but myself, and I’m going to forget that. All the traces of it are gone. Eddie’ll never know; and so he’ll be happy! I have undone it, mommer; it’s just the same now as if _that_ had never happened." Her mother, shivering, racked by her night’s anguish, looked sternly at her. "That’s because you don’t know," she said. "You don’t know yet what you’ve done!" CHAPTER SEVEN I Mrs. Kennedy made no preparation for going to work that day. She suffered from a strange, an inexplicable malady. She didn’t want to go to bed. She sat upright in a rocking-chair, still in her night-dress, staring at the kitchen wall before her with a faint little frown. Angelica washed and dressed herself neatly, and got ready some breakfast--not very quickly, for she wasn’t accustomed to cooking, but with the care and deftness that were so natural to her. It was, when done, a daintier and better meal than her mother had ever served. "Now, mommer!" she said. "Come on! Sit down!" "I can’t eat, Angelica." "You can drink some coffee, anyway." And she took her mother by the hand and led her to the table--a poor, frail, barefooted little thing, with her gray hair hanging about her haggard face. "Sit down," said Angelica again. "Now, then!" Her mother drank a cup of coffee greedily, and gave her familiar little sigh. "That _was_ nice!" she said. Her daughter succeeded in making her eat a little as well. "Now you got to lie down," she said. "I can’t. I’ve got to clean the halls." "I’ll do it, mommer." "Nonsense, Angelica! You don’t know a thing about it." "I guess I can learn. Go on, mommer, lie down!" She straightened the bed and patted the thin little pillow.