The Last LeafO. Henry1 At the top of a three-story brick building, Sue and Johnsy had their studio.Johnsy was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California.They had met at a cafe on Eighth Street and found their tastes in art, chicory salad andbishop sleeves so much in tune that the joint studio resulted.2 That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctorscalled Pneumonia, stalked about the district, touching one here and there with his icyfingers. Johnsy was among his victims. She lay, scarcely moving on her bed, lookingthrough the small window at the blank side of the next brick house.3 One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a bushy, grayeyebrow.4 She has one chance in ten, he said. And that chance is for her to want to live.Your little lady has made up her mind that shes not going to get well. Has sheanything on her mind?5 She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day, said Sue.6 Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice - aman, for instance?7 A man? said Sue. Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of thekind.8 Well, said the doctor. I will do all that science can accomplish. But whenevermy patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 percent from the curative power of medicines. After the doctor had gone Sue went intothe workroom and cried. Then she marched into Johnsys room with her drawingboard, whistling a merry tune.9 Johnsy lay, scarcely making a movement under the bedclothes, with her facetoward the window. She was looking out and counting - counting backward.10 Twelve, she said, and a little later eleven; and then ten, and nine; andthen eight and seven, almost together.11 Sue looked out of the window. What was there to count? There was only abare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away.An old, old ivy vine climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumnhad blown away its leaves, leaving it almost bare.12 Six, said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. Theyre falling faster now. Three daysago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now itseasy. There goes another one. There are only five left now.13 Five what, dear? 14 Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. Ive knownthat for three days. Didnt the doctor tell you?15 Oh, I never heard of such nonsense. What have old ivy leaves to do with yourgetting well? Dont be so silly. Why, the doctor told me this morning that yourchances for getting well real soon were ten to one! Try to take some soup now, and letSudie go and buy port wine for her sick child.116 You neednt get any more wine, said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out thewindow. There goes another. No, I dont want any soup. That leaves just four. I wantto see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then Ill go, too. Im tired of waiting. Imtired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down,down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves.17 Try to sleep, said Sue. I must call Behrman up to be my model for the oldminer. Ill not be gone a minute.18 Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. Hewas past sixty and had a long white beard curling down over his chest. Despitelooking the part, Behrman was a failure in art. For forty years he had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. He earned a little by servingas a model to those young artists 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 mocked terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as guard dog to the two young artists in the studio above.19 Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of gin in his dimly lighted studio below.In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there fortwenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsys fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, floataway, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. Old Behrman, with his redeyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt for such foolish imaginings.20 What! he cried. Are there people in the world foolish enough to die becauseleafs drop off from a vine? I have never heard of such a thing. Why do you allow suchsilly ideas to come into that head of hers? God! This is not a place in which one sogood as Miss Johnsy should lie sick. Some day I will paint a masterpiece,and weshall all go away. Yes.21 Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the w