Page:Stella Dallas, a novel (IA stelladallasnove00prou).pdf/282

272 like me. (The Lord knows how I happen to be her mother. Talk about miracles!) Oh, why couldn't I have whiffed out last summer at that hotel when I was so sick? She'd have gone to New York then, just as a matter of course. She'd be there, now, to-day. She'd be under steam this minute, admired, desired, flags flying, sun shining. 'As long as you're alive.' Those were her words. Oh, why couldn't I whiff out now? Say, why couldn't I feel a little dizzy and topple over out of the window, down there on the concrete—it's four stories—and clear the job up quick—right now, and no more talk?

"No, I can't. I'm afraid. I haven't the nerve. I haven't the guts. It might only smash me up. Poison would be better, or gas, or a revolver. Poison—what kind? Gas—how long would it take? A revolver—where were they bought? How did you load them? Oh, it would be horrid—horrid! I wonder if I dare."

Stella got down from the window-seat and went over to the bed. The early light of dawn was in the room now, like gray smoke. She stood looking down at Laurel through the thick intangible haze for a long time—for a minute, for two minutes, for three minutes, perhaps.

"Ought I? Oh, gracious, ought I?" she whispered.

The memory of a certain other early morning, when she had stood thus and gazed down upon the sweetly sleeping, defenseless child, recurred to Stella. Then, also, as now, she had whispered, "Ought I? Oh, gracious, ought I?" It was when the doctors