As she cowered over it, if one of the men who admired her had entered he might well scarcely have known her. She was hollow-eyed, haggard and pallid--for the time even her great beauty was gone. As he had left her that day, the doctor had said to himself discontentedly that after all, these wonderful faces last but a short time. The fire caught at the coal, lighted fitful blazes among it, and crept over it in a dull red, which brightened into hot scarlet. And the sick man lay sleeping, breathing faintly but lightly. "It will last until dawn," she said,--"until dawn, and no longer." When the first cinder dropped with a metallic sound, she started violently and laid her hand upon her breast, but after that she scarcely stirred. The fitful blazes died down, the hot scarlet deepened to red again, the red grew dull, a gray film of ashes showed itself upon it, and then came the first faint gray of dawn, and she sat with beating heart saying to herself, "It will go out soon--suddenly." And the dying man was awake, speaking to her. "Come here," he said in a low, clear voice. "Come here." She went to him and stood close by the bedside. The moment of her supreme anguish had come. But he showed no signs of pain or dread, only there was a little moisture upon his forehead and about his mouth. His eyes shone large and bright in the snowy pallor of his face, and when he fixed them upon her she knew he would not move them away. "I am glad--that it is--finished," he said. "It did not tire me to work--as I thought it would. I am glad--that it is--finished." She fell upon her knees. "That it is finished?" she said. His smile grew brighter. "The picture," he whispered--"the picture." And then what she had waited for came. There was a moment of silence; the wind outside hushed itself, his lips parted, but no sound came from them, not even a fluttering breath; his eyes were still fixed upon her face, open, bright, smiling. "I may speak now," she cried. "I may speak now--since you cannot hear. I love you! I love you!" But there came to her ears only one sound--the little grating shudder of the fire as it fell together and was dead. * * * * * The next morning when they heard that "the American" had at last fulfilled their prophecies, the _locataires_ showed a spasmodic warmth of interest. They offered their services promptly, and said to each other that he must have been a good fellow, after all--that it was a pity they had not known him better. They even protested that he should not be made an object of charity--that among themselves they would do all that was necessary. But it appeared that their help was not needed--that there was in the background a friend who had done all, but whom nobody knew. Hearing this they expressed their sympathy by going up by twos and threes to the little garret where there was now only icy coldness and silence.