In a little district west of Washington Square the streetshave run crazy and broken themselves into small stripscalled “places.” These “places” make strange angles andcurves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artistonce discovered a valuable possibility in this street.
Suppose a collector with a bill for paints， paper andcanvas should， in traversing this route， suddenly meethimself coming back， without a cent having been paid onaccount！
So， to quaint old Greenwich Village the art peoplesoon came prowling， hunting for north windows andeighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents.
Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dishor two from Sixth Avenue， and became a “colony.”
At the top of a squatty， three-story brick Sue and Johnsyhad their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna. Onewas from Maine； the other from California. They had metat the table d’hte of an Eighth Street “Delmonico’s，” andfound their tastes in art， chicory salad and bishop sleevesso congenial that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold， unseen stranger，whom the doctors called Pneumonia， stalked about thecolony， touching one here and there with his icy fingers.
Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly， smitinghis victims by scores， but his feet trod slowly through themaze of the narrow and moss-grown “places.”
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalricold gentleman. A mite of a little woman with bloodthinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for thered-fisted， short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote；and she lay， scarcely moving， on her painted iron bedstead，looking through the small Dutch window-panes at theblank side of the next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into thehallway with a shaggy， gray eyebrow.
“She has one chance in—let us say， ten，” he said， as heshook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. “Andthat chance is for her to want to live. This way people haveof lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entirepharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up hermind that she’s not going to get well. Has she anything onher mind？”
“She—she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day.”
said Sue.
“Paint？ —bosh！ Has she anything on her mind worththinking twice—a man for instance？”
“A man？” said Sue， with a jew’s-harp twang in her voice.
“Is a man worth—but， no， doctor； there is nothing of thekind.”
“Well， it is the weakness， then，” said the doctor. “Iwill do all that science， so far as it may filter through myefforts， can accomplish. But whenever my patient beginsto count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If youwill get her to ask one question about the new winterstyles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-fivechance for her， instead of one in ten.”
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroomand cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggeredinto Johnsy’s room with her drawing board， whistlingragtime.
Johnsy lay， scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes，with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling，thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawingto illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pavetheir way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine storiesthat young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow ridingtrousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero， an Idahocowboy， she heard a low sound， several times repeated. Shewent quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy’s eyes were open wide. She was looking out thewindow and counting—counting backward.
“Twelve，” she said， and little later “eleven”； and then“ten，” and “nine”； and then “eight” and “seven”， almosttogether.
Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was thereto count？ There was only a bare， dreary yard to be seen，and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. Anold， old ivy vine， gnarled and decayed at the roots， climbedhalf way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn hadstricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branchesclung， almost bare， to the crumbling bricks.
“What is it， dear？” asked Sue.
“Six，” said Johnsy， in almost a whisper. “They’re fallingfaster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred.
It made my head ache to count them. But now it’s easy.
There goes another one. There are only five left now.”
“Five what， dear？ Tell your Sudie.”
“Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I mustgo， too. I’ve known that for three days. Didn’t the doctortell you？”
“Oh， I never heard of such nonsense，” complained Sue，with magnificent scorn. “What have old ivy leaves to dowith your getting well？ And you used to love that vineso， you naughty girl. Don’t be a goosey. Why， the doctortold me this morning that your chances for getting wellreal soon were—let’s see exactly what he said—he saidthe chances were ten to one！ Why， that’s almost as good achance as we have in New York when we ride on the streetcars or walk past a new building. Try to take some brothnow， and let Sudie go back to her drawing， so she can sellthe editor man with it， and buy port wine for her sickchild， and pork chops for her greedy self.”
“You needn’t get any more wine，” said Johnsy， keepingher eyes fixed out the window. “There goes another. No， Idon’t want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to seethe last one fall before it gets dark. Then I’ll go， too.”
“Johnsy， dear，” said Sue， bending over her， “will youpromise me to keep your eyes closed， and not look outthe window until I am done working？ I must hand thosedrawings in by to-morrow. I need the light， or I woulddraw the shade down.”
“Couldn’t you draw in the other room？” asked Johnsy，coldly.
“I’d rather be here by you，” said Sue. “Beside， I don’twant you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves.”