"No, I'll arrange," replied she. "It'll give me something to do--something to do for him. You see, it's my last chance." And she turned to ascend the stairs. "Something to do," she repeated dully. "I wish I hadn't cleaned house this morning. That would be something more to do." This jarred on him--then brought the tears to his eyes again. How childish she was!--and how desolate! "But you'll let me stay?" he pleaded. "You'll need me. At any rate, I want to feel that you do." "I'd rather you didn't stay," she said, in the same calm, remote way. "I'd rather be alone with him, this last time. I'll go up and sit there until they take him away. And then--in a few days I'll see what to do--I'll send for you." "I can't leave you at such a time," he cried. "You haven't realized yet. When you do you will need some one." "You don't understand," she interrupted. "He and I understood each other in some ways. I know he'd not want--anyone round." At her slight hesitation before "anyone" he winced. "I must be alone with him," she went on. "Thank you, but I want to go now." "Not just yet," he begged. Then, seeing the shadow of annoyance on her beautiful white face, he rose and said: "I'm going. I only want to help you." He extended his hand impulsively, drew it back before she had the chance to refuse it. For he felt that she would refuse it. He said, "You know you can rely on me." "But I don't need anybody," replied she. "Good-by." "If I can do anything----" "Pat will telephone." She was already halfway upstairs. He found Pat in the front yard, and arranged with him to get news and to send messages by way of the drug store at the corner, so that she would know nothing about it. He went to a florist's in New York and sent masses of flowers. And then--there was nothing more to do. He stopped in at the club and drank and gambled until far into the morning. He fretted gloomily about all the next day, riding alone in the Park, driving with his sister, drinking and gambling at the club again and smiling cynically to himself at the covert glances his acquaintances exchanged. He was growing used to those glances. He cared not the flip of a penny for them. On the third day came the funeral, and he went. He did not let his cabman turn in behind the one carriage that followed the hearse. At the graveyard he stood afar off, watching her in her simple new black, noting her calm. She seemed thinner, but he thought it might be simply her black dress. He could see no change in her face. As she was leaving the grave, she looked in his direction but he was uncertain whether she had seen him. Pat and Molly were in the big, gloomy looking carriage with her. He ventured to go to the front gate an hour later. Pat came out. "It's no use to go in, Mr. Norman," he said. "She'll not see you. She's shut up in her own room." "Hasn't she cried yet, Pat?"