Rhoda Gray took the clothing, and went back to the bedside. Gypsy
Nan had made little progress in disrobing. It seemed about all the
woman could do to cling to the edge of the cot and sit upright.

"What does all this mean, Nan," she asked tensely; "all those things
up there - that money?"

Gypsy Nan forced a twisted smile.

"It means I know how bad I am, or I wouldn't have let you see what
you have," she answered heavily. "It means that there isn't any
other way. Hurry! Get these things off! Get me dressed!"

But it took a long time. Gypsy Nan seemed with every moment to
grow weaker. The lamp on the chair went out for want of oil. There
was only the guttering candle in the gin bottle to give light. It
threw weird, flickering shadows around the garret; it seemed to
enhance the already deathlike pallor of the woman, as, using the
pitcher of water and the basin from the washstand now, Rhoda Gray
removed the grime from Gypsy Nan's face and hands.

It was done at last - and where there had once been Gypsy Nan,
haglike and repulsive, there was now a stylishly, even elegantly,
dressed woman of well under middle age. The transformation seemed
to have acted as a stimulant upon Gypsy Nan. She laughed with
nervous hilarity she even tried valiantly to put on a pair of new
black kid gloves, but, failing in this, pushed them unsteadily into
the pocket of her coat.