When the doctor had gone they began to understand that the town had looked upon Pop as a giant of industry, a prodigal of vicarious extravagance. They began to feel more keenly still how good a man he was. While they were flourishing like orchids in the sun and air, he had grubbed in the earth, sinking roots everywhere in search of moisture and of sustenance. Through him, things that were lowly and ugly and cheap were gathered and transformed and sent aloft as sap to make flowers of and color them and give them velvet petals and exquisite perfume. They gathered silently in his room to watch him. He was white and still, hardly breathing, already the overdue chattel of the grave. They talked of him in whispers, for he did not answer when they praised him. He did not move when they caressed him. He was very far away and drifting farther. They spoke of how much they missed him, of how perfect a father he had been, competing with one another in regrets and in praise. Back of all this belated tribute there was a silent dismay they did not give voice to--the keen, immediately personal reasons for regret. "What will become of us?" they were thinking, each in his or her own terrified soul. "I can't go back to school!" "This means no college for me!" "I'll have to stay in this awful town the rest of my life!" "I can't go to San Francisco! The greatest honor of my life is taken from me just as I grasped it." "I had a commission to paint the portrait of an ambassador at Washington--it would have been the making of me! It meant a lot of money, too. I came home to ask Pop to stake me to money enough to live on until it was finished." "My business will go to smash! I'll be saddled with debts for the rest of my life. If I could have hung on a little longer I'd have reached the shore; but the bank wouldn't lend me a cent. Nobody would. I came home to ask Pop to raise me some cash. I counted on him. He never failed me before." "What will become of us all?" There was a stir on the pillow. The still head began to rock, the throat to swell, the lips to twitch. _Mere_ ran to the bedside and knelt by it, laying her hand on the forehead. A miracle had been wrought in the very texture of his brow. He was whispering something. She put her ear to his lips. "Yes, honey. What is it? I'm here." She caught the faint rustling of words. It was as if his hovering soul had been eavesdropping on their thoughts. Perhaps it was merely that he had learned so well in all these years just what each of them would be thinking. For he murmured: "I've been figuring out--how much the--funeral will cost--you know they're awful expensive--funerals are--of course I wouldn't want anything fancy--but--well--besides--and I've been thinking the children have got to have so many things--I can't afford to--be away from the store any longer. I ain't got time to die! I've had vacation enough! Where's my clothes at?"