. Oh, mama--Oh--"

A quick spout of hysteria seemed to half strangle Mrs. Samstag, so that
she slanted backward, holding her throat.

"I knew it. My own child against me. Oh, God! Why was I born? My own
child against me!"

"Mama--you can't marry him. You can't marry--anybody."

"Why can't I marry anybody? Must I be afraid to tell my own child when a
good man wants to marry me and give us both a good home? That's my
thanks for making my child my first consideration--before I accepted
him."

"Mama, you didn't accept him. Darling, you wouldn't do a--thing like
that!"

Miss Samstag's voice thickened up then, quite frantically, into a little
scream that knotted in her throat and she was suddenly so small and
stricken, that with a gasp for fear she might crumple up where she
stood, Mrs. Samstag leaned forward, catching her again by the sash.

"Alma!"

It was only for an instant, however. Suddenly Miss Samstag was her
coolly firm little self, the bang of authority back in her voice.

"You can't marry Louis Latz."

"Can't I? Watch me."

"You can't do that to a nice, deserving fellow like him!"

"Do what?"

"That!"

Then Mrs. Samstag threw up both her hands to her face, rocking in an
agony of self-abandon that was rather horrid to behold.

"Oh, God, why don't you put me out of it all? My misery! I'm a leper to
my own child!"

"Oh--mama--"

"Yes, a leper. Hold my misfortune against me. Let my neuralgia and
Doctor Heyman's prescription to cure it ruin my life. Rob me of what
happiness with a good man there is left in it for me. I don't want
happiness. Don't expect it. I'm here just to suffer. My daughter will
see to that. Oh, I know what is on your mind. You want to make me out
something--terrible--because Dr. Heyman once taught me how to help
myself a little when I'm nearly wild with neuralgia. 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.

"Mama, mama, what are you saying? I'm not blaming you, sweetheart. I
blame him--Dr. Heyman--for prescribing it in the beginning. I know your
fig