Meanwhile he tidied the room as it had never been tidied before, and then fixed his thick white hair about his face in the fashion which Emmy liked. At last he held up both candles and looked at himself in the mirror, and there were pink spots on his cheek-bones, and the bit of blue about his neck went very well with his faded eyes. Old Liebereich wagged his head with the satisfaction of a dandy at what he saw. Suddenly he started away from the mirror, then back to it. Then he laughed. “I thought it was you, Emmy. And you looked like that first day when you saw your face in it. Sixteen. I wouldn’t like you to come back looking sixteen, and me eighty-four. No, I ain’t quite ready for you yit, Emmy; I must get clean sheets. But we ain’t far apart now no more!” He went close to the mirror to whisper this. He still was not sure that he did not see her there. And I hope that you and I have “seen things” in the mirror, though perhaps we are not eighty-four and have no Emmy. Then he went on getting ready for her till he was very tired—more tired, he thought, than he had ever been. Outside Mrs. Schwalm was whispering to Mrs. Krantz: “No, they ain’t far apart! He’s mighty funny to-night. He is seeing things.” At last he was ready to hang up their stockings on the brass nails which had been put into the mantel for this purpose when the house was built. And, for something to surprise her, he took from behind that loose brick a gold coin. It had the date of 1825 on it. There was a hole in it, and through the hole a narrow blue ribbon. But now he stopped and his heart heaved. “It was to cut the baby’s teeth on.” After a while: “We was going to call him Billy if he was a boy—Emmy if she was a girl.” Again: “But there never was no baby.” And then, at last: “But there never was no baby.” He put the coin in the toe of Emmy’s stocking and went to bed and closed his eyes—to watch. And his last words were: “Tired—tired—tired—Emmy!” He dozed and made himself wake so often, and nothing had happened, that he grew afraid and much more tired. And the red went out of his cheeks, and he could feel his face becoming very cold. He dozed a long time, at last without waking. Then they outside, seeing this, came in—all those neighbors—stealthily, whispering and going toward his bed. Some one brought a candle and held it so close to his eyes that it scorched and tortured him. He woke; he was tremendously terrified by their stealth, but he did not understand at all—he who had never had such thoughts as theirs. They did not know that he was awake. “He is better off,” said one of them. “He died easy,” said another. Then, suddenly, old Liebereich understood. He did not quiver. But his heart was bursting. “I don’t know about that,” said a wary one. Some one took Liebereich’s hand from under the covers. “’Sh! He’s only asleep,” the voice whispered. Another sighed a disappointment. “Touch his feet,” said one.