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“Is she ill?” I asked in real concern, gathering that much at least from the incoherent tirade.

“She is dying,” answered the desolate old creature, her voice softening and her dim eyes filling with tears.

“Oh, I trust not. Perhaps something can be done. Can I help you in any way?”

“In all ways if you would,” she said, breaking down and beginning to sob weakly, with her head resting on the sill of the carriage-window. “Oh, what have we not been through together, we two! Piece by piece I have sold all.”

I am good-hearted enough, but I do not like to have old women weeping across my carriage-door. I suggested, therefore, that she should come inside and let me take her home. Her shabby old skirt was soon beside me, and, following her directions, the driver turned toward one of the most wretched quarters of the city, the abode of poverty, crowded and unclean. Here, in a large bare chamber up many flights of stairs, I found Miss Grief.

As I entered I was startled: I thought she was dead. There seemed no life present until she opened her eyes, and even then they rested upon us vaguely, as though she did not know who we were. But as I approached a light came into them: she recognized me, and this sudden revivification, this return of the soul to the almost deserted bod, was the most wonderful thing I ever saw. “You have good news of the drama?” she whispered as I bent over her: “tell me. I know you have good news.”

What was I to answer? Pray, what would you have answered, puritan?

“Yes, I have good news, Aaronna,” I said. “The drama will appear.” (And who knows? Perhaps it will in some other world.)

She smiled, and her now brilliant eyes did not leave my face.

“He knows I’m your aunt: I told him,” said the old woman, coming to the bedside.

“Did you?” whispered Miss Grief, still gazing at me with a smile. “Then please, dear Aunt Martha, give me something to eat.”

Aunt Martha hurried across the room, and I followed her. “It’s the first time she’s asked for food in weeks,” she said in a husky tone.

She opened a cupboard-door vaguely, but I could see nothing within. “What have you for her?” I asked with some impatience, though in a low voice.

“Please God, nothing!” answered the poor old woman, hiding her reply and her tears behind the broad cupboard-door. “I was going out to get a little something when I met you.”

“Good Heavens! is it money you need? Here, take this and send; or go yourself in the carriage waiting below.”

She hurried out breathless, and I went back to the bedside, much disturbed by what I had seen and heard. But Miss Grief’s eyes were full of life, and as I sat down beside her she whispered earnestly, “Tell me.”

And I did tell her–a romance invented for the occasion. I venture to say that none of my published sketches could compare with it. As for the lie involved, it will stand among my few good deeds; I know, at the judgment-bar.

And she was satisfied. “I have never known what it was,” she whispered, “to be fully happy until now.” She closed her eyes, and when the lids fell I again thought that she had passed away. But no, there was still pulsation in her small, thin wrist. As she perceived my touch she smiled. “Yes, I am happy,” she said again, though without audible sound.

The old aunt returned; food was prepared, and she took some. I myself went out after wine that should be rich and pure. She rallied a little, but I did not leave her: her eyes dwelt upon me and compelled me to stay, or rather my conscience compelled me. It was a damp night, and I had a little fire made. The wine, fruit, flowers, and candles I had ordered made the bare place for the time being bright and fragrant. Aunt Martha dozed in her chair from sheer fatigue–she had watched many nights–but Miss Grief was awake, and I sat beside her.