“What is it，dear？”asked Sue.
“Six，”said Johnsy，in almost a whisper.“They're falling faster 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 fve left now.”
“Five what，dear.Tell your Sudie.”
“leaves.on the ivy vine.When the last one falls I must go，too.I've known that for three days.didn't the doctor tell you？”
“oh，I never heard of such nonsense，”complained Sue，with magnifcent scorn.“What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well？and you used to love that vine so，you naughty girl.don't be a goosey.Why，the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were—let's see exactly what he said—he said the chances were ten to one！Why，that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building.Try to take some broth now，and let Sudie go back to her drawing，so she can sell the editor man with it，and buy port wine for her sick child，and pork chops for her greedy self.”
“You needn't get any more wine，”said Johnsy，keeping her eyes fxed out the window.“There goes another.No，I don't want any broth.That leaves just four.I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark.Then I'll go，too.”
“Johnsy，dear，”said Sue，bending over her，“will you promise me to keep your eyes closed，and not look out the window until I am done working？I must hand those drawings in by tomorrow.I need the light，or I would draw the shade down.”
“Couldn't you draw in the other room？”asked Johnsy，coldly.
“I'd rather be here by you，”said Sue.“Besides I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves.”
“Tell me as soon as you have fnished，”said Johnsy，closing her eyes，and lying white and still as a fallen statue，“becauseI want to see the last one fall.I'm tired of waiting.I'm tired of thinking.I want to turn loose my hold on everything，and go sailing down，down，just like one of those poor，tired leaves.”
“Try to sleep，”said Sue.“I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner.I'll not be gone a minute.don't try to move'till I come back.”
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground foor beneath them.He was past sixty and had a Michael angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along the body of an imp.Behrman was a failure in art.Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe.He had been always about to paint a masterpiece，but had never yet begun it.For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising.He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional.He drank gin to excess，and still talked of his coming masterpiece.For the rest he was a fierce little old man，who scoffed terribly at softness in any one，and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below.In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-fve years to receive the frst line of the masterpiece.She told him of Johnsy's fancy，and how she feared she would，indeed，light and fragile as a leaf herself，foat away when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.
old Behrman，with his red eyes，plainly streaming，shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.
“Vass！”he cried.“Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine？I haf not heard of such a thing.No，I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead.Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der prain of her？ach，dot poor lettle Miss Johnsy.”
“She is very ill and weak，”said Sue，“and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies.Very well，Mr.Behrman，if you do not care to pose for me，you needn't.But I think you are a horrid old—old fibbertigibbet.”
“You are just like a woman！”yelled Behrman.“Who said I will not bose？Go on.I come mit you.For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose.Gott！dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick.Some day I vill baint a masterpiece，and ve shall all go away.Gott！yes.”