She needed comfort, and she knew but one comforter--the familiar demon in her bosom; but she hesitated a moment, after drawing out the black remnant, before she raised it to her lips.
In that moment the mother's love pleaded for painful consciousness rather than oblivion--pleaded to be left in aching weariness, rather than to have the encircling arms benumbed so that they could not feel the dear burden.

In another moment Molly had flung something away, but it was not the black remnant--it was an empty phial.

And she walked on again under the breaking cloud, from which there came now and then the light of a quickly veiled star, for a freezing wind had sprung up since the snowing had ceased.

But she walked always more and more drowsily, and clutched more and more automatically the sleeping child at her bosom.
Slowly the demon was working his will, and cold and weariness were his helpers.

Soon she felt nothing but a supreme immediate longing that curtained off all futurity--the longing to lie down and sleep.