“It is too late. I am alone. Something was wrong with you, Fanny. You seemed good and sound enough. But something was wrong with you, Fanny.... Look at you now: you Fanny Dirk, you bright Fanny ... mother and wife ... you now.” She knew she was not to die. She knew there was nothing wrong. “Does God send clean creatures to a death like this? Death in a stinking room where no one comes to see what is the matter after days and days. Starving to death alone, in New York.... O how rotten you must have been!” She knew she was not rotten. “Is there nothing left? No one single thing? Mother, I can’t find you. Edith, I can’t see you. Harry--Edith--all gone. Is there nothing left? Yes: one thing left.” Fanny lifted her shoulders faintly from the bed with straining elbows. Her heavy head fell backward: her eyes swung dizzy toward the ceiling. “God! you aren’t much for me. But I believe in you. Do you hear? Even now. I am not rotten, God. I have not done wrong, God. You must hear me, for I believe in you, somehow, my Father. This is all right. This is not just--this is not unjust. It is part of the world. I am leaving the world. But I have been a part. I believe that, God. I have been a part and you need all parts. You have needed me, God?” There were tears in her eyes ... cool good tears. “Say you have needed me, God, for a part in your ... something. Whatever it is. You’ve done with me, now. But you’ve used me. Haven’t you used me, God? You’re casting me in the ash-heap I know. Can’t you say at least ‘Thank you’ before I am gone?” Fanny sank back upon her pillow. Tears made cool stains down the hot parch of her cheeks. Her eyes roved through the opaque bright room, breaking against the cruel harshness of familiar objects. Her hands against each other on her breast tremored and fell apart. Her mouth moved.--Is this the end? She knew there was no end. A great Peace came. Her body was soft and enfolded. Warm waters held her close, washed her of anguish, washed her of doubt and of weakness, washed her at last of self. Fanny was perfect in sleep like a child in its mother. There was a smile on her mouth.... * * * * * Long hours the room with its still freight moved through the world. Unbroken, like a seed, buried and hard in the earth. At dusk the door opened slowly. Clara stepped into the room. The prostrate friend in the stiff iron bed, black hair matted over the hot white face, the walls, very still, very cold, shutting this beaten flesh into their death ... struck Clara in the door. Her hands clutched her throat. She knelt beside the bed. Her hands and cheeks took in the heavy breath, the burning brow, voluptuously. “Thank God,” she murmured. Then the luxury of sense and of articulation went. Clara was action. Ten minutes later, a physician stood with her at the bedside. * * * * *