“Tell me as soon as you have finished，” said Johnsy， closingher eyes， and lying white and still as a fallen statue， “becauseI want to see the last one fall. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired ofthinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything， and gosailing down， down， just like one of those poor， tired leaves.”
“Try to sleep，” said Sue. “I must call Behrman up to be mymodel for the old hermit miner. I’ll not be gone a minute.
Don’t try to move ‘till I come back.”
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floorbeneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo’sMoses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along thebody of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years hehad wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch thehem of his Mistress’s robe. He had been always about to painta masterpiece， but had never yet begun it. For several yearshe had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the lineof commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as amodel to those young artists in the colony who could not paythe price of a professional. He drank gin to excess， and stilltalked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fiercelittle old man， who scoffed terribly at softness in any one， andwho regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protectthe two young artists in the studio above.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries inhis dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvason an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five yearsto receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him ofJohnsy’s fancy， and how she feared she would， indeed， lightand fragile as a leaf herself， float away when her slight holdupon the world grew weaker.
Old Behrman， with his red eyes， plainly streaming， shoutedhis contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.
“Vass！” he cried. “Is dere people in de world mit der foolishnessto die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine？ I hafnot heard of such a thing. No， I will not bose as a model for yourfool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness tocome in der prain of her？ Ach， dot poor lettle Miss Johnsy.”
“She is very ill and weak，” said Sue， “and the fever has lefther mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well， Mr.
Behrman， if you do not care to pose for me， you needn’t. But Ithink you are a horrid old—old flibbertigibbet.”
“You are just like a woman！” yelled Behrman. “Who said Iwill not bose？ Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peentrying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott！ dis is not any blace inwhich one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I villbaint a masterpiece， and ve shall all go away. Gott！ yes.”
Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled theshade down to the window-sill， and motioned Behrman intothe other room. In there they peered out the window fearfullyat the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a momentwithout speaking. A persistent， cold rain was falling， mingledwith snow. Behrman， in his old blue shirt， took his seat as thehermit-miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.
When Sue awoke from an hour’s sleep the next morning shefound Johnsy with dull， wide-open eyes staring at the drawngreen shade.
“Pull it up； I want to see，” she ordered， in a whisper.
