Of course I'm not so sick as the doctors make out (they got to earn the money somehow), but it's hard to sleep sitting up this way, and sometimes at night I get to thinking. So I made a will. I knew you'd never touch Calloway's money with a ten-foot pole, but I thought maybe you wouldn't mind seeing it got spent right. I want it to go to one of those shelters you told about in the magazine, for little French girls with babies and no husbands. Seems only fair, when I've had more than my share of husbands and no kids. Paris seems awful far away, and I guess I better let you off that promise you made me to see that I didn't get laid out with no corset on. They probably couldn't get a corset on me now, anyway, I'm that fleshy. Not that I'm ordering me a coffin for anytime real soon, dearie! but sometimes at night a person gets to thinking. Joan was rather startled by this letter, and sent for Nikolai. "What do you make of it, Stefan? That part: 'It's hard to sleep sitting up this way'--what does it mean?" "I am afraid," he said gravely, "it means something serious--Advanced heart-disease, probably. A woman of her weight would be liable to it." Joan gave an exclamation of dismay. In that moment she discovered that she not only did not dislike Effie May; she was fond of her. The thought of never again seeing the vulgar, cheery, friendly soul was unexpectedly distressing. "Poor woman!--all alone there with her 'nigger help!' and Ellen sourly doing her duty--Or is it _my_ duty?" She was not thinking entirely of Effie May.... "Stefan"--her face blanched. "She was my father's wife. She tried her best to be a mother to me. I owe her a good deal. Has the time come to repay it? Does this mean--Oh, Stefan, do you think this means I ought to go back? I've been so happy here, so useful! For the first time in my life I have felt that I really 'belonged.' These people who are doing things--" She gazed at him beseechingly. It gradually dawned upon her that what she dreaded so to leave was not these people who were doing things, not that larger, freer life to which Nikolai had given her the key; not even the Spirit that met her Spirit there in space. It was Nikolai himself, the man, the comrade--the lover. Her whole being seemed to rush out to meet the need that suddenly gazed at her from Nikolai's eyes.... "Stefan," she said very low, "_must_ I go back?" For a moment he did not answer. Then he said, his voice not quite under control "You expect me to decide that for you? My dear, you ask too much." He took his hat and left; but Joan knew that he had decided. * * * * * They walked up and down the _quai_ for an hour or so before the gangway was drawn in. Joan always afterwards remembered what they said, as one recalls the least syllable of the dying. There was a sense of finality about this parting, against which she struggled in vain.