John's eyes glared strangely as he stood gazing upon them. "And did you think, Annie," he said softly, putting his hand upon her head, "that I'd leave you in this world, to work and to slave, and to rear our children up to work and to slave, and eat the bitter bread of poverty? And you, Nelly, did you think I'd leave you to slave here, until your soul was sick; and then, some day, when work failed, and starvation looked in at the window, to sell yourself to some rich scoundrel for bread? No, wife--no, sister--no, children: _I have gathered you up in my arms, and we're all going together_!" He kissed them one by one, and then tottered back toward the lighted furnace--toward his chair--the light which he held, shining fully over his withered face and flaming eyes. In one hand he still grasped the marble image. He had gained half the distance to his chair, when the door opened. A man of middle age, clad in sober black, his hair gray, and his hooked nose supporting gold spectacles, appeared on the threshold. "Ah, Doctor, is that you?" cried John, "I thought it was the landlord;--you've come too late, Doctor, too late." "Too late? What mean you, Mr. Martin?" said the doctor, advancing into the room--but starting back again, as he encountered the poisoned air. "Too late--too late!" cried John, the candle trembling in his unsteady grasp, as he raised his skeleton-like form to its full height--"We're all cured,--" "Cured? What mean you? How cured?" "Cured of--life!" said John; and, stepping quickly forward, he fell at the doctor's feet. The doctor seized the light as he fell, and attempted to raise him from the floor,--but John was dead in his arms. * * * * * Our history now returns to Israel Yorke, whom, with Ninety-One and the eleven, we left waiting in the dark, outside the artist's door. "Hush, boys! hush!" whispered Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the latch "Enter, Isr'el, and talk to yer tenant." The door opened, and Israel entered, followed by Ninety-One and the eleven, all of whom preserved a dead stillness. A single light was burning dimly in the artist's humble room. It cast its rays over the humble details of the place,--over the bed, which was covered by a white sheet. The place was deathly still. "What does all this mean?" cried Israel. "There is no one here." Ninety-One took the light from the table, and led Israel silently to the bed. The eleven gathered round in silence; you could hear their hard breathing through the dead stillness of the room. Ninety-One lifted the sheet, slowly; his harsh features quivering in every fiber. "That's what it means," he said hoarsely.