I started for the door, but a little gasping cry from my mother-in-law stopped me.  She was feebly beating the air with her hands, her eyes were distended, and her cheeks and lips had the ashen color which I had learned to associate with my own little mother’s frequent attacks.

Filled with remorse, I flew to her side and lowered her gently into an arm chair which stood near.  Snatching her handbag I opened it and took out a little bottle of volatile salts which I knew she carried.  I pressed it into her hands, and then took out a tiny bottle of drops with a familiar label.  They were the same that my mother had used for years.  Taking a spoon which I also found in the bag, I measured the drops, added a bit of water from the faucet in the adjoining room, and gave them to her.  As I came toward her I heard her murmuring to herself: 

“Lillian Gale!  Lillian Gale!” she was saying.  “How blind I’ve been.”

Even in my anxiety for her condition I found time to wonder as to the significance of her exclamations.  Evidently the name of Lillian Gale was familiar to her.  From her tones also I knew that it was not a welcome name.  What was there in this past friendship of Dicky and Mrs. Underwood to cause his mother so much emotion?  I remembered the comments I had heard at the theatre about my husband’s friendship with this woman.

All my old doubts and misgivings which had been smothered by the very real admiration I had felt for Lillian Gale’s many good qualities revived.  What was the secret in the lives of these two?  I felt that for my own peace of mind I must know.

The color was gradually coming back to my mother-in-law’s face.  I stood by her chair, forgetting her insults, remembering nothing save that she was old and a sick woman.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” I asked as I saw the strained look in her eyes die out.

“Nothing, thank you,” she said.  Then to my surprise she reached up her hand, took mine in hers, and pressed it feebly.  I could not understand her quick transition from bitter contempt to friendly warmth.  Evidently something in my words had startled her and had changed her viewpoint.  But I put speculation aside until some more opportune time.  The imperative thing for me was to minister to her needs, mentally and physically.

“How do you feel now?” I asked.

“Much better, thank you,” she replied.  Then in a tone I had never heard from her lips before:  “Come here, my child.”

I could hardly credit my own ears.  Surely those gentle words, that soft tone, could not belong to my husband’s mother, who, in the short time she had been an inmate of our home, had lost no opportunity to show her dislike for me, and her resentment that her son had married me.

But I obeyed her and came to her side.  She put up her hand and took mine, and I saw her proud old face work with emotion.

“I was unjust to you a few moments ago, Margaret,” she said, “and I want to beg your pardon.”