She was too weak to light the lamp or to undress. Shefell upon the iron cot， her fragile body scarcely hollowingthe worn springs. And in that Erebus of the skylight room，she slowly raised her heavy eyelids， and smiled.
For Billy Jackson was shining down on her， calm andbright and constant through the skylight. There was noworld about her. She was sunk in a pit of blackness， withbut that small square of pallid light framing the star thatshe had so whimsically and oh， so ineffectually named.
Miss Longnecker must be right； it was Gamma， of theconstellation Cassiopeia， and not Billy Jackson. And yetshe could not let it be Gamma.
As she lay on her back she tried twice to raise her arm.
The third time she got two thin fingers to her lips andblew a kiss out of the black pit to Billy Jackson. Her armfell back limply.
“Good-bye， Billy，” she murmured faintly. “You’remillions of miles away and you won’t even twinkle once.
But you kept where I could see you most of the time upthere when there wasn’t anything else but darkness tolook at， didn’t you？ ... Millions of miles ... Good-bye， BillyJackson.”
Clara， the coloured maid， found the door locked at 10the next day， and they forced it open. Vinegar， and theslapping of wrists and burnt feathers proving of no avail，some one ran to ’phone for an ambulance.
In due time it backed up to the door with much gongclanging，and the capable young medico， in his white linencoat， ready， active， confident， with his smooth face halfdebonair， half grim， danced up the steps.
“Ambulance call to 49，” he said briefly. “What’s thetrouble？”
“Oh， yes， doctor，” sniffed Mrs. Parker， as though hertrouble that there should be trouble in the house was thegreater. “I can’t think what can be the matter with her.
Nothing we could do would bring her to. It’s a youngwoman， a Miss Elsie—yes， a Miss Elsie Leeson. Neverbefore in my house—”
“What room？” cried the doctor in a terrible voice， towhich Mrs. Parker was a stranger.
“The skylight room. It—”
Evidently the ambulance doctor was familiar with thelocation of skylight rooms. He was gone up the stairs，four at a time. Mrs. Parker followed slowly， as her dignitydemanded.
On the first landing she met him coming back bearingthe astronomer in his arms. He stopped and let loose thepractised scalpel of his tongue， not loudly. Gradually Mrs.
Parker crumpled as a stiff garment that slips down from anail. Ever afterward there remained crumples in her mindand body. Sometimes her curious roomers would ask herwhat the doctor said to her.
“Let that be，” she would answer. “If I can get forgivenessfor having heard it I will be satisfied.”
The ambulance physician strode with his burden throughthe pack of hounds that follow the curiosity chase， andeven they fell back along the sidewalk abashed， for his facewas that of one who bears his own dead.
They noticed that he did not lay down upon the bedprepared for it in the ambulance the form that he carried，and all that he said was： “Drive like h—l， Wilson，” to thedriver.
That is all. Is it a story？ In the next morning’s paper Isaw a little news item， and the last sentence of it may helpyou （as it helped me） to weld the incidents together.
It recounted the reception into Bellevue Hospital of ayoung woman who had been removed from No. 49 East—street， suffering from debility induced by starvation. Itconcluded with these words：
“Dr. William Jackson， the ambulance physician whoattended the case， says the patient will recover.”
