“I am glad—that it is—finished,” he said. “It did not tire me to work—as I thought it would. I am glad—that it is—finished.”
She fell upon her knees.
“That it is finished?” she said.
His smile grew brighter.
“The picture,” he whispered—“the picture.”
And then what she had waited for came. There was a moment of silence; the wind outside hushed itself, his lips parted, but no sound came from them, not even a fluttering breath; his eyes were still fixed upon her face, open, bright, smiling.
“I may speak now,” she cried. “I may speak now—since you cannot hear. I love you! I love you!”
But there came to her ears only one sound—the little grating shudder of the fire as it fell together and was dead.
The next morning when they heard that “the American” had at last fulfilled their prophecies, the locataires showed a spasmodic warmth of interest. They offered their services promptly, and said to each other that he must have been a good fellow, after all—that it was a pity they had not known him better. They even protested that he should not be made an object of charity—that among themselves they would do all that was necessary. But it appeared that their help was not needed—that there was in the background a friend who had done all, but whom nobody knew.