“Tell me as soon as you have finished，” said Johnsy，closing her eyes， and lying white and still as fallen statue，“because I want to see the last one fall. I’m tired ofwaiting. I’m tired of thinking. I want to turn loose myhold on everything， and go sailing down， down， just likeone of those poor， tired leaves.”
“Try to sleep，” said Sue. “I must call Behrman up tobe my model for the old hermit miner. I’ll not be gone aminute. Don’t try to move ’til I come back.”
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the groundfloor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a MichaelAngelo’s Moses beard curling down from the head of asatyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failurein art. Forty years he had wielded the brush withoutgetting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress’srobe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece，but had never yet begun it. For several years he hadpainted nothing except now and then a daub in the lineof commerce or advertising. He earned a little by servingas a model to those young artists in the colony who couldnot pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess，and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest hewas a fierce little old man， who scoffed terribly at softnessin any one， and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studioabove.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berriesin his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blankcanvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twentyfiveyears to receive the first line of the masterpiece. Shetold him of Johnsy’s fancy， and how she feared she would，indeed， light and fragile as a leaf herself， float away， whenher slight hold upon the world grew weaker.
Old Behrman， with his red eyes plainly streaming，shouted his contempt and derision for such idioticimaginings.
“Vass！” he cried. “Is dere people in de world mit derfoolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from aconfounded vine？ I haf not heard of such a thing. No， I willnot bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vydo you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her？
Ach， dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy.”
“She is very ill and weak，” said Sue， “and the feverhas left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies.
Very well， Mr. Behrman， if you do not care to pose forme， you needn’t. But I think you are a horrid old—oldflibbertigibbet.”
“You are just like a woman！” yelled Behrman. “Who saidI will not bose？ Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour Ihaf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott！ dis isnot any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall liesick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece， and ve shall all goaway. Gott！ yes.”
Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Suepulled the shade down to the window-sill， and motionedBehrman into the other room. In there they peered outthe window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked ateach other for a moment without speaking. A persistent，cold rain was falling， mingled with snow. Behrman， in hisold blue shirt， took his seat as the hermit miner on anupturned kettle for a rock.
When Sue awoke from an hour’s sleep the next morningshe found Johnsy with dull， wide-open eyes staring at thedrawn green shade.
“Pull it up； I want to see，” she ordered， in a whisper.
