' crushed barley behind that shed. Give
yer plug a half feed, an' by then I'll be ready."

We rode into Paradise as night was closing in. The south-east wind was
still blowing, and the thin veil of mist upon the mountain had grown
into a cloud. In front of George Leadham's house were a couple of
eucalyptus trees. Their long, lanceolate leaves were shaking as Pap
and I passed through the gate. A man's shadow darkened the small
porch. To the right was the room where Sissy lay. A light still shone
in the window. The shadow moved; it was the doctor. He hurried
forward.

"Glad to make your acquaintance," said he to Pap, whom he had never
seen before.

"Air ye? You wa'n't expectin' me, surely?"

"Certainly," replied the doctor, impatiently. "What man wouldn't come
under such circumstances?"

"Is there much danger?" said Pap, anxiously.

"The child is as ill as she can be."

"I meant fer--me."

"Great Scot! If you feel like that you'd better not go in." His tone
was dully contemptuous.

"Wal--I do feel like that, on'y more so; an' I'm goin' in all the
same. Reckon I'm braver'n you, 'cause you ain't skeered."

We entered the room. George Leadham was sitting by the bed. When he
saw us he bent over the flushed face on the pillow, and said, slowly
and distinctly: "Here's Mr. Spooner, my pretty; he's come. Do you
hear?"

She heard perfectly. In a thick, choked voice she said: "Is that you,
Pap?"

"It's me," he replied; "it's me, sure enough."

"Why, so'tis. Popsy, where's my money?"

"Here, Sissy, right here."

She extended a thin, wasted hand.

"I want you to have it, Pap," she said, speaking very slowly, but in a
clearer tone. "You see, it's like this. I've got the diptheery, an'
I'm a-goin' to die. I don't need the money--see! And you do, you pore
old Pap, so you must take it."

Pap took the money in silence. George Leadham had turned aside, unable
to speak. I stood behind the door, out of sight. Sissy stared
anxiously at Pap.

"Popsy said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would," she sighed.
"Good-bye, you pore old Pap." She closed her eyes, but she held Pap's
hand. The young doctor came forward with his finger upon his lips.
Quietly, he signed to Pap to leave the room; the old man shook his
head. The doctor beckoned the father and me out on to the porch.

"Miracles sometimes happen," said he, gravely. "The child has fallen
into a natural sleep."

But not for three hours did her grip relax of Pap's