“Dear， dear！” said Sue， leaning her worn face down to the pillow， “think of me， if you won’t think of yourself. What would I do？”
But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious， far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.
The day wore away， and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then， with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed， while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.
When it was light enough Johnsy， the merciless， commanded that the shade be raised.
The ivy leaf was still there.
Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue， who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.
“I’ve been a bad girl， Sudie，” said Johnsy. “Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now， and some milk with a little port in it， and—no； bring me a hand-mirror first， and then pack some pillows about me， and I will sit up and watch you cook.”
And hour later she said：
“Sudie， some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.”
The doctor came in the afternoon， and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
“Even chances，” said the doctor， taking Sue’s thin， shaking hand in his. “With good nursing you’ll win.” And now I must see another case Ihave downstairs. Behrman， his name is—some kind of an artist， I believe. Pneumonia， too. He is an old， weak man， and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him； but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable.”
The next day the doctor said to Sue： “She’s out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now—that’s all.”
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay， contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf， and put one arm around her， pillows and all.
“I have something to tell you， white mouse，” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern， still lighted， and a ladder that had been dragged from its place， and some scattered brushes， and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it， and look out the window， dear， at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew？ Ah， darling， it’s Behrman’s masterpiece—he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.”
42
The Gift Of The Magi
麦琪的礼物
One dollar and eighty-seven cents.That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the bucher until one’s cheek burned with silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied.Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents.And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs， sniffles， and smiles， with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second， take a look at the home. A furnished flat at eight dollars per week. It did not exactly beggar description， but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter box into which no letter would go，and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr.James Dillingham Yourg.”
The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid 30 per week. Now， when the income was shrunk to 20， the letters of “Dillingham” looked blurred， as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. but whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs.
James Dillingham Young， already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backgard.Tomorrow would be Christmas Day， and she had only one dollar and eight-seven cents with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months，with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses hed been greater than she had calculated. They always ane. Only one dollar and eighty-seven cents to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim.Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him.Something fine and rare and sterling- something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an 8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may， by observing his reflection in a rapid sequednce of longitudinal strips， obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della， being slender， had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly， but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.