In appearance it was the same dark mildewed room of two weeks before, with the harness on the wall, and the picture of the beautiful woman hanging crookedly near the ceiling. In the half gloom she saw the old man still stretched on the hard bed with the weight of flatirons attached to his foot. His face in its gauntness and pallor showed the suffering he had endured; but the sunken eyes were bright, and he displayed his eagerness in the gesture with which he motioned her to the chair by his side.
"I vant you to write a letter," he began in a weak voice. "It comes to me in the night if I haf no one to do for me I vill not soon get vell. Johanna is a child. She can speak not the English; she can order not the food. She can do nothing but rock herself in the chair and cry. Open the drawer in the table, and take the paper and ink. It is to my niece's oldest child—the letter."
Not without trembling, because of her proximity to the strange old man, Miss Billy obeyed.
"I am ready, Mr. Schultzsky," she announced.
The old man fell to pondering.
"To Frances Lindsay, my niece's child," he began at last. "I am in much trouble that my leg is broke and I cannot mofe. It is such warm weather, and such pain, I cannot get well unless you come by me.
"I will pay it when you come, which you should do right away.
"Your affectionate uncle,
"Abraham Schultzsky."