decaying, beyond the semblance of human form or feature, on the
bed,--bent and kissed, as a mother would have kissed.

The gray dawn crept yet further into the room, the streets were growing
noisier, the Elevated trains rushed by the corner, the milkmen's carts
rumbled along the Avenue, the sparrows twittered loudly on the
neighboring roofs. And yet it seemed so solemnly silent in the room.
"Well, now!" said Druse, with pleased surprise, "I didn't expect you
would. What a long time it is gettin' light this mornin'. To think of
you, a-takin' care of _me_, like this! An' I ain't never done a thing
for you excep' the headaches and sweepin', an' even that was nicer for
me than for you. I knew you was awful good, but I never knew you was
religious before, Miss De Courcy. Nobody but folks that has religion
does such things, they say. I wish I could remember my prayers. Ain't it
strange, I've forgot them all? Couldn't you say one? Just a little one?"

And Miss De Courcy, her face buried in her hands, said, "Lord, have
mercy upon us," and said no more.

"Thank you," said Druse, more feebly, and quite satisfied. "We won't
forget each other, an' you'll promise to come by'm'by. Won't you? I'll
be so pleased when you come!"

"Yes, Druse," whispered Miss De Courcy, "I promise."

And then the terrible form that had been Druse sat up in bed with a
mighty effort, and turned its sightless eyes joyfully toward Miss De
Courcy's tear-stained face.

"It's morning! I can see you!" it said, and fell back into the faithful