few of us here-abouts. He wouldn't 'ave nobody notified. He
said as how nobody cared. I think m'self 'e wandered a bit. He talked
wild, it seemed to me. No, 'e didn't suffer none--not as I could see.
His books? Oh, 'e sold 'em. They're comin' for 'em to-morrer. He wanted
the money given to a Jew boy that's sick downstairs. He was queer, Mr.
Good was, but 'e was allus free with 'is money, that 'e was."

"What about the picture?" Judith's voice was strained and hoarse.

"Oh, that? He told me to send it to some lady. Funny name, it was. I got
it downstairs. I been too busy to attend to it. What with the dyin' and
the buryin' an' all, not to mention the cookin'--and two parties moved
out to-day, an'...."

"Was it Wynrod--the name?" asked Judith gently.

A light broke over the stout woman's face. "Sure now, that was it. But
how did ye know?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I am Miss Wynrod."

"Oh, so that's it, is it. Well then, ye can be takin' it an' save me the
trouble. An' by the way--there's a letter, too. I fergot about that. One
moment an' I'll have it fer ye...."

She disappeared noisily. Judith stood staring out of the window. Imrie
tried to fix his attention upon the books, but his eyes kept wandering
miserably to Judith's unresponsive back, drooping like a wilted flower.
Neither spoke. The stout woman returned in a surprisingly short time,
considering her bulk.

"Here 'tis," she cried cheerfully, puffing like some inadequate engine.
"I spilt a little cranberry on it, but that won't hurt the inside." She
handed the envelope to Judith and stood waiting expectantly.

But Judith turned and accepted it without a word, her grey face as
immobile as if made of stone. Quietly she moved nearer the whistling
gas-light, and after a pause, as though she were girding herself for a
struggle, she tore the flap quickly.

It was a short note:

* * * * *

"Dearest of Friends:

"This is my 'thirty.' My story's done--the candle's out.

"But after all, each one of us is only a page--perhaps only a letter--in
the great Book. We're blotted out or torn away, but the Story goes
on--always.

"The forms are closed on my tale. The wires are dead. But there's 'more
to follow' in _your_ story. And the big Yarn isn't finished because my
take's all set. Even when the Foreman puts the blue envelope in _your_
box, even then--there will be 'more to follow.'

"I have loved you well."

*