The little room in which Emarine lay ill was small and white, like a nun’s chamber. The ceiling slanted on two sides. There was white matting on the floor; there was an oval blue rug of braided rags at the side of the bed, and another in front of the bureau. There was a small cane-seated and cane-backed rocker. By the side of the bed was a high, stiff wooden chair, painted very black and trimmed with very blue roses. There were two or three pictures on the walls. The long curtains of snowy butter-cloth were looped high. The narrow white bed had been wheeled across the open window, so Emarine could lie and look down over the miles of green valley, with the mellifluous Willamette winding through it like a broad silver-blue ribbon. By turning her head a little she could see the falls; the great bulk of water sliding over the precipice like glass, to be crushed into powdered foam and flung high into the sunlight, and then to go seething on down to the sea. At sunrise and at sunset the mist blown up in long veils from the falls quickened of a sudden to rose and gold and purple, shifting and blending into a spectral glow of thrilling beauty. It was sweeter than guests to Emarine. The robins were company, too, in the large cherry tree outside of her window; and sometimes a flight of wild canaries drifted past like a yellow, singing cloud. When they sank, swiftly and musically, she knew that it was to rest upon a spot golden with dandelions. Outside the door of this room Mrs. Endey paused. “I don’t see ’s it ’u’d be proper to let you go in to see ’er alone,” she said, sternly. Orville’s eyes were eloquent with entreaty. “Lord knows there w’u’dn’t be any harm in ’t,” he said, humbly but fervently. “I feel jest as if I was goin’ in to see an angel.” Mrs. Endey’s face softened; but at once a smile came upon it—one of those smiles of reluctant, uncontrollable humor that take us unawares sometimes, even in the most tragic moments. “She’s got too much spunk fer an angel,” she said. “Don’t choo go to runnin’ of her down!” breathed Orville, with fierce and reckless defiance. “I wa’n’t a-runnin’ of her down,” retorted Mrs. Endey, coldly. “You don’t ketch me a-runnin’ of my own kin down, Orville Parmer!” She glowered at him under drawn brows. “An’ I won’t stand anybody else’s a-runnin’ of ’em down or a-walkin’ over ’em, either! There ain’t no call fer _you_ to tell me not to run ’em down.” Her look grew blacker. “I reckon we’d best settle all about your mother before we go in there, Orville Parmer.” “What about ’er?” His tone was miserable; his defiance was short-lived. “Why, there’s no use ’n your goin’ in there unless you’re ready to promise that you’ll give Emarine the whip-hand over your mother. You best make up your mind.” “It’s _made_ up,” said the young fellow, desperately. “Lord Almighty, Mis’ Endey, it’s made up.”