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           ThensheswaggeredintoJohnsy’sroomwithherdrawingboard,whistlingragtime. 

           Johnsylay,scarcelymakingarippleunderthebedclothes,withherfacetowardthewindow. Suestoppedwhistling,thinkingshewasasleep. 

           Shearrangedherboardandbeganapen-and-inkdrawingtoillustrateamagazinestory. YoungartistsmustpavetheirwaytoArtbydrawingpicturesformagazinestoriesthatyoungauthorswritetopavetheirwaytoLiterature. 

           AsSuewassketchingapairofeleganthorseshowridingtrousersandamonocleonthefigureofthehero,anIdahocowboy,sheheardalowsound,severaltimesrepeated. Shewentquicklytothebedside. 

           Johnsy’seyeswereopenwide. Shewaslookingoutthewindowandcounting—countingbackward. 

           "Twelve,"shesaid,andalittlelater"eleven;"andthen"ten,"and"nine;"andthen"eight"and"seven,"almosttogether. 

           Suelookedsolicitouslyoutthewindow. Whatwastheretocount? Therewasonlyabare,drearyyardtobeseen,andtheblanksideofthebrickhousetwentyfeetaway. Anold,oldivyvine,gnarledanddecayedattheroots,climbedhalfwayupthebrickwall. Thecoldbreathofautumnhadstrickenitsleavesfromthevineuntilitsskeletonbranchesclung,almostbare,tothecrumblingbricks. 

           "Whatisit,dear? "askedSue. 

           "Six,"saidJohnsy,inalmostawhisper.