the mouth. What
courage did she have to withstand this? He was dying--of that there
could be little doubt. She had grown white to the roots of her hair.

"I do not pray," she said steadily.

His eyebrows met. "You--_do not pray_? Who--taught--you--_not to
p--ray_?"

"You did," she said quietly.

He lay back with a sigh.

"Outrageous!" murmured Miss Etta through her tears. "An awful
girl--_awful_!"

The man on the bed smiled. He lifted his hand and let it fall back on
the cover.

"It's all right--all right--all--right." The reddish-brown eyelids
closed slowly.

Involuntarily a wave of pity shook me. It was consummate acting. That a
man should play a part upon the very edge of life held in it something
awesome, compelling attention. I drew myself together, feeling his eyes,
sharp for all their floating sadness, upon me. Was he--? Was I--?--A
crackling of thunder shook the ground. When it had passed, the rain came
down straight and hard and windless like rapier thrusts. The room
seemed, if possible, closer, more suffocating. He beckoned to Lisbeth
and she went and stood near him. He was to put her through a still
harder ordeal.

"You have never cared for me," he whispered.

There was no sound except for the steady pour outside and the rustle of
Miss Etta's garments as she made angry motions to Lisbeth. Even at this
moment, I believe, had he shown sign of any honest wish for affection,
she would have given all she had.

"Not for many years," she said, and for the first time her voice shook.

"_Ah--h!_" His breath went inwards.

Suddenly he began to fumble among the bed clothes.

"The picture," he said incoherently, "your mother's picture. Pick it
up," he ordered, his eyelids drooping strangely. "No--no--under the
_bed_."

Before I could stop her she had dropped to her knees and was fumbling
among the rolls of dust under the bed. An overpowering dread had
clutched at me, forcing the air from my lungs. But in that instant he
had raised himself, by what must have been an almost incredible exercise
of will, and grabbed her by the throat.

"_Curse you!_" he cried, shaking her as one would a rat, "you and your
mother--_cur_--"

His hands dropped away, limp and brittle like withered leaves. He fell
back.--

* * * * *

Of course they will always find excuses for the dead, and eulogies. Even
as I helped her into Jim's small curtained car and took my place at the
wheel, I kne