“Isn’t it time to give the medicine?” asked a low voice from the corner. “It should be given on the stroke of the hour.” “Yes!” answered Mary Margaret, with a start, “it’s time.” She turned her back toward the nurse and received the light over her shoulder. A pewter spoon lay upon the chair. She held up the vial, and, pouring a few drops into the spoon, drank it herself with a rash determination to know, if possible, what the drug was before she administered it. It left a strong taste of opium in her mouth; and, quick as thought, she remembered that morphine was colorless, that a few drops would kill, and she had been directed to give that frail creature a teaspoonful. Mary Margaret shuddered from head to foot. The blood seemed curdling in her veins; her plump fingers grew cold as she clasped the vial. How much had she drank? Would those few drops be her death? No, no, they could not be enough. She felt sure that God would not let her perish there in the midst of her duty. “Have you given her the medicine?” asked the hoarse voice again from the clouded corner. “Not—not yet. I—I am pouring it out,” was the reply, and setting down the vial, she hastily poured out some tea into another spoon and gave it to the patient, who smiled gratefully as the moisture crept through her lips. “Has she drank it?” asked the nurse, starting up as Mary Margaret settled the invalid back upon her pillow. “You see!” answered Mary, pointing to the moist lips of the girl. The nurse pushed her away between the cots, saw the vial with its cork out and moisture about the neck, and her white lips broke into a half smile, so cold, so deadly, that Mary Margaret shrunk back as if a snake were creeping across her feet. Still the woman did not seem quite satisfied, but took up the spoon, out of which Mary Margaret had drank, and touched her tongue to the bowl. “Oh!” she said, rather in a deep breath than with words, “oh! now watch, and I will go to bed a while. If she sleeps, let her!—if she wakes up, call me.” “And if she is worse, where can I find the doctor?” asked Mary, gazing wistfully at her enemy through the lamp-light, and shuddering at the strange sensations that she fancied to be creeping over her. “The doctor, where is he?” “Call _me_ if you want any one. Bellevue doctors don’t come to the beck and call of their pauper patients.” “But I must have a doctor!” persisted Mary. “_Must!_” echoed the woman, turning deadly white. “Oh!” and with a slow, cat-like movement she crept back to the bed, lingered over the pillow an instant and disappeared, carrying the vial of medicine with her.