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"
A
man
?
"
said
Sue
,
with
a
jew
's
-
harp
twang
in
her
voice
.
"
Is
a
man
worth
--
but
,
no
,
doctor
;
there
is
nothing
of
the
kind
.
"
"
Well
,
it
is
the
weakness
,
then
,
"
said
the
doctor
.
"
I
will
do
all
that
science
,
so
far
as
it
may
filter
through
my
efforts
,
can
accomplish
.
But
whenever
my
patient
begins
to
count
the
carriages
in
her
funeral
procession
I
subtract
50
per
cent
from
the
curative
power
of
medicines
.
If
you
will
get
her
to
ask
one
question
about
the
new
winter
styles
in
cloak
sleeves
I
will
promise
you
a
one-infive
chance
for
her
,
instead
of
one
in
ten
.
"
After
the
doctor
had
gone
Sue
went
into
the
workroom
and
cried
a
Japanese
napkin
to
a
pulp
.
Then
she
swaggered
into
Johnsy
's
room
with
her
drawing
board
,
whistling
ragtime
.
Johnsy
lay
,
scarcely
making
a
ripple
under
the
bedclothes
,
with
her
face
toward
the
window
.
Sue
stopped
whistling
,
thinking
she
was
asleep
.
She
arranged
her
board
and
began
a
pen-and-ink
drawing
to
illustrate
a
magazine
story
.
Young
artists
must
pave
their
way
to
Art
by
drawing
pictures
for
magazine
stories
that
young
authors
write
to
pave
their
way
to
Literature
.
As
Sue
was
sketching
a
pair
of
elegant
horseshow
riding
trousers
and
a
monocle
on
the
figure
of
the
hero
,
an
Idaho
cowboy
,
she
heard
a
low
sound
,
several
times
repeated
.
She
went
quickly
to
the
bedside
.
Johnsy
's
eyes
were
open
wide
.
She
was
looking
out
the
window
and
counting
--
counting
backward
.
"
Twelve
,
"
she
said
,
and
a
little
later
"
eleven
;
"
and
then
"
ten
,
"
and
"
nine
;
"
and
then
"
eight
"
and
"
seven
,
"
almost
together
.
Sue
looked
solicitously
out
the
window
.
What
was
there
to
count
?
There
was
only
a
bare
,
dreary
yard
to
be
seen
,
and
the
blank
side
of
the
brick
house
twenty
feet
away
.
An
old
,
old
ivy
vine
,
gnarled
and
decayed
at
the
roots
,
climbed
half
way
up
the
brick
wall
.
The
cold
breath
of
autumn
had
stricken
its
leaves
from
the
vine
until
its
skeleton
branches
clung
,
almost
bare
,
to
the
crumbling
bricks
.
