"With three e's," corrected Rose, and got up with dignity. "Well, good-bye, dearie," she said. "You've got your friends now and you don't need me. I guess you've had your lesson about going to sleep with a cig--about being careless with fire. Drop me a postal when you get the time." She shook hands with Jerry and rustled and jingled down the ward, her chin well up. At the door she encountered Old Maggie, her arms full of bandages. "How's the Avenue?" asked Old Maggie. Rose, however, like all good actresses, was still in the part as she made her exit. She passed Old Maggie unheeding, severe respectability in every line of her figure, every nod of her purple plumes. She was still in the part when she encountered the Probationer. "It's going like a house afire!" she said. "He swallowed it all--hook and bait! And--oh, yes, I've got something for you." She went down into her silver bag and pulled out a roll of bills. "I've felt meaner'n a dog every time I've thought of you buying that parrot. I've got a different view of life--maybe--from yours; but I'm not taking candy from a baby." When the Probationer could speak Rose was taking herself and the purple into the elevator and waving her a farewell. "Good-bye!" she said. "If ever you get stuck again just call on me." With Rose's departure silence fell behind the screen. The girl broke it first. "They're all well, are they?" "All well. Your mother's been kind of poorly. She thought you'd write to her." The girl clenched her hands under the bedclothing. She could not speak just then. "There's nothing much happened. The post office burned down last summer. They're building a new one. And--I've been building. I tore down the old place." "Are you going to be married, Jerry?" "Some day, I suppose. I'm not worrying about it. It was something to do; it kept me from--thinking." The girl looked at him and something gripped her throat. He knew! Rose might have gone down with her father, but Jerry knew! Nothing was any use. She knew his rigid morality, his country-bred horror of the thing she was. She would have to go back--to Rose and the others. He would never take her home. Down at the medicine closet the Probationer was carbolising thermometers and humming a little song. Everything was well. The Avenue Girl was with her people and at seven o'clock the Probationer was going to the roof--to meet some one who was sincerely repentant and very meek. In the convalescent ward next door they were singing softly--one of those spontaneous outbursts that have their origin in the hearts of people and a melody all their own: _'Way down upon de S'wanee Ribber, Far, far away, Dere's wha my heart is turnin' ebber-- Dere's wha de old folks stay._ It penetrated back of the screen, where the girl lay in white wretchedness--and where Jerry, with death in his eyes, sat rigid in his chair. "Jerry?" "Yes." "I--I guess I've been pretty far away."