"Copy," yelled the small boy at the door. The sick woman lying on the
bed began to move her fingers aimlessly upon the worn counterpane. Her
eyes were bright with fever; her face, once beautiful, was thin and
pain drawn. She was dying, but neither she nor the man who held her
hand and wrote on a paper tablet knew that the end was so near.
Three paragraphs were lacking to fill the column of humorous matter
that the foreman had sent for. The small pay it brought them barely
furnished shelter and food. Medicine was lacking but the need for that
was nearly over.
The woman's mind was wandering; she spoke quickly and unceasingly, and
the man bit his pencil and stared at the pad of paper, holding her
slim, hot hand.
"Oh, Jack; Jack, papa says no, I cannot go with you. Not love you!
Jack, do you want to break my heart? Oh, look, look! the fields are
like heaven, so filled with flowers. Why have you no ice? I had ice
when I was at home. Can't you give me just a little piece, my throat
is burning?"
The humourist wrote: "When a man puts a piece of ice down a girl's
back at a picnic, does he give her the cold shoulder?"
The woman feverishly put back the loose masses of brown hair from her
burning face.
"Jack, Jack, I don't want to die! Who is that climbing in the window?
Oh, it's only Jack, and here is Jack holding my hand, too. How funny!
We are going to the river tonight. The quiet, broad, dark, whispering
river. Hold my hand tight. Jack, I can feel the water coming in. It is
so cold. How queer it seems to be dead, dead, and see the trees above
you."