rin' young man, en'
good ter work under. Yo' coffee gittin' col', en' if I heat it ag'in it
never tast' de same--de secon' b'ilin' make it bitter."

"I'll come down--I'll come down," Lizzie said. "Let it be cold. It
doesn't matter. I'm not hungry. Don't wake Jane. She is asleep. She was
sick last night and had the doctor."

After breakfast there was nothing to do, and Lizzie sat first in the
parlor, then in the dining-room, and again on the porch. She went in to
see Jane and found her still asleep. In the yellow light of day there
was something weirdly uncouth in the pink-robed form, the patchwork of
paint, powder, and death-tints of the face which had once been
attractive and care-free. The doctor was coming again and Lizzie told
herself that Jane must be undressed and put to bed properly, and yet she
shrank from going about it, for she dreaded Jane's temper. But it had
to be done, so, getting out a nightgown from a bureau drawer, she
proceeded to wake the sleeper. It was difficult, but Jane finally opened
her eyes, and, only half conscious, she submitted, falling asleep again
as soon as Lizzie stopped handling her. Mandy came up the stairs and
looked in at the door. She approached the bed and stared down
disapprovingly at the frail, limp form.

"Dat's er dyin' 'ooman," she said, superstitiously. "She got de mark of
it all over 'er."

Lizzie, in a chair at the foot of the bed, nodded, but said nothing.

The doctor came, made an examination, and motioned Lizzie and the
servant to follow him from the chamber. "She is sinking pretty fast," he
said. "She may come to her senses before the end, and she may not. I'm
doing no good and shall not call again."

The white woman and the black, standing side by side in the corridor,
watched him descend the stairs.

"Well, well, what could she expect?" Mandy muttered, as she started for
the kitchen. "She made 'er bed, Jake say, en' now she's on it. Well,
well, I don't judge nobody--dat's de Lawd's job, not mine--but I'm sorry
for 'er--so I am. I'm sorry fer 'er, en'--en' fer you, _too_, Mis'
Trott."

There were no male visitors that day. The news of John's and Dora's
deaths somehow kept men away. However, the report that Jane had
attempted to kill herself and was about to die reached some of her
female associates, and in their perfumed finery and with mincing,
high-heeled steps they rustled in. With faces as vapid as faces of wax
they perched around Jane's bed like birds in