must go to see Behrman, as they call him — an artist, I believe. He has been stricken with pneumonia and there is no hope of his pulling through, for he is old; but I shall move him to the hospital so that he may have comfort in his last days."

And he said to her the next day: "The danger is over and you have won the battle; your friend needs nothing more now than care and good food."

That afternoon Sue came close to the bed of Johnsy, who was knitting a wool shawl, put her arms around her, and said:

"I have something important to tell you, dear. Uncle Behrman died today in the hospital, after being stricken with pneumonia. The janitor found him the morning

of the day before yesterday, his clothes soaked with water and frozen upon his body, and no one could make out where he had been on a stormy night like that — until they found in the garden a lighted lantern, a wooden ladder, some scattered brushes, and a palette with a mixture of green and yellow upon it. Look out of the window — do you see that last leaf hanging at the tip of its stem against the wall? Did you never wonder how it neither stirred nor fell despite the storms and the winds? ... Ah, my darling, it is Behrman's splendid masterpiece — he painted it there the night the last leaf fell."