apple, with locks of gray hair coming out from under her black cap. She threw up her hands, and straightway blurted out her familiar exclamation:
"Do tell! Mr. Paul, do tell!" Her astonishment still more reassured me.
"How is my father?" I asked. Instead of answering my question she cried again:
"How surprised monsieur will be! For you were not expected. Not that I should reproach you, Mr. Paul, but it is a long time since you have seen him! He talks of you continually. And when I say, 'Why does n't Mr. Paul come to see you,' he answers, 'It is business!'"
I interrupted her, repeating my question:
"But how is he?"
This time she replied:
"So, so, Mr. Paul, so, so. One day passable, the next day worse. There are times when he cannot get his breath. He coughs and coughs until he is blue. The doctor comes every morning to see how he is getting on."
She spoke in an even tone, as if there were nothing alarming in these symptoms, with the calmness of one who cannot perceive, through the force of habit, the approach of death.
"Does he keep his bed?"
"He keep his bed! You do not know him, then. He will go to the last moment, I tell you. Gets up with the sun, like a young man. When
