Susan, sitting and staring at the flaring gas-lights, began to feel that in the midst of life was death, indeed, and that the term of human existence is as brief as a dream.  “We will all have to die too,” she said, awesomely to herself, her eyes traveling about the circle of faces.

At two o’clock Miss Foster summoned them and they went into the invalid’s room; to Susan it was all unreal and unconvincing.  The figure in the bed, the purple face, the group of sobbing watchers.  No word was said:  the moments slipped by.  Her eyes were wandering when Miss Foster suddenly touched her aunt’s hand.

A heavy, grating breath—­a silence—­Susan’s eyes met Billy’s in terror—­but there was another breath—­and another—­and another silence.

Silence.

Miss Foster, who had been bending over her patient, straightened up, lowered the gray head gently into the pillow.

“Gone,” said Dr. O’Connor, very low, and at the word a wild protest of grief broke out.  Susan neither cried nor spoke; it was all too unreal for tears, for emotion of any kind.

“You stay,” said Miss Foster when she presently banished the others.  Susan, surprised, complied.

“Sorry to ask you to help me,” said Miss Foster then briskly, “but I can’t do this alone.  They’ll want to be coming back here, and we must be ready for them.  I wonder if you could fix her hair like she wore it, and I’ll have to get her teeth—–­”

“Her what?” asked Susan.

“Her teeth, dear.  Do you know where she kept them?”

Appalled, sickened, Susan watched the other woman’s easy manipulation of what had been a loving, breathing woman only a few hours before.  But she presently did her own share bravely and steadily, brushing and coiling the gray-brown locks as she had often seen her aunt coil them.  Lying in bed, a small girl supposedly asleep, years before, she had seen these pins placed so—­and so—­ seen this short end tucked under, this twist skilfully puffed.

This was not Auntie.  So wholly had the soul fled that Susan could feel sure that Auntie—­somewhere, was already too infinitely wise to resent this fussing little stranger and her ministrations.  A curious lack of emotion in herself astonished her.  She longed to grieve, as the others did, blamed herself that she could not.  But before she left the room she put her lips to her aunt’s forehead.

“You were always good to me!” Susan whispered.

“I guess she was always good to everyone,” said the little nurse, pinning a clever arrangement of sheets firmly, “she has a grand face!” The room was bright and orderly now, Susan flung pillows and blankets into the big closet, hung her aunt’s white knitted shawl on a hook.