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That evening Keith went to see a doctor he knew, and next day, through his intervention, Phrony was removed to the private ward of an asylum, where she was made as comfortable as possible. It was evident that she had not much longer to stay. But God had been merciful to her. She babbled of her baby and her happiness at seeing it soon.
But "No," the Queen replied angrily, "I played that long before you were born. And my honorable ancestors played it before me." Again Marmaduke felt in his pockets, hoping to find something that would help him out. He drew forth a penny, a fishhook, a dried worm, two marbles, and there just the thing the game of Authors, which Aunt Phrony had given him for his birthday.
She had made friends with Squire Rawson, and the old man found much comfort in talking to her of Phrony. Sometimes, in the afternoon, when she was lonely, she climbed the hill and looked after the little plot in which lay the grave of her father. She remembered her mother but vaguely: as a beautiful vision, blurred by the years; but her father was clear in her memory.
That evening Keith went to the address that Phrony had given him. It was a small lodging-house of, perhaps, the tenth rate. The dowdy woman in charge remembered a young woman such as he described. She was ill and rather crazy and had left several weeks before. She had no idea where she had gone. She did not know her name. Sometimes she called herself "Miss Tripper," sometimes "Mrs. Wickersham."
Men and women were bustling along with that ceaseless haste that always struck him in New York haste to go, haste to return, haste to hasten: the trade-mark of New York life: the hope of outstripping in the race. A moment later he was conscious of a woman's step close behind him. He turned as the woman came up beside him, and faced Phrony Tripper.
She was so worn and bedraggled and aged that for a moment he did not recognize her. Then, as she spoke, he knew her. "Why, Phrony!" He held out his hand. She seized it almost hungrily. "Oh, Mr. Keith! Is it really you? I hardly dared hope it was. I have not seen any one I knew for so long so long!" Her face worked, and she began to whimper; but Keith soothed her.
"I want to see the worl'. Don't nobody keer nothin' about me, an' I want to git out." "Oh, yes! Why, I care about you," said Keith. To his surprise, the boy began to whimper. "Thankee. I'm obliged to you. I want to go away where Phrony ner nobody ner anybody won't never see me no more any more." The truth dawned on Keith. Little Dave, too, had his troubles, his sorrows, his unrequited affections.
Templeton conducted in the chapel of the hospital where Phrony had passed away, before the body was taken South. Alice Lancaster had been faithful to the end in looking after her. Phrony was buried in the Rawson lot in the little burying-ground at Ridgely, not far from the spot where lay the body of General Huntington.
Keith, fearing to trust himself further, changed the subject and asked after the Rawsons, Wickersham having mentioned that he had been staying with them. "Phrony is back at home, I believes She has been off to school. I hear she is very much improved?" "I don't know; I didn't notice her particularly," said Wickersham, indifferently. "She is very pretty. Jake Dennison thinks so," laughed Keith.
He gazed at her with that in his eyes which said, as plainly as words could have said it, "You are beautiful." But she was looking away, wondering to herself who it might be. "I mean she must have what I call beauty," he added by way of explanation. "I don't count mere red and white beauty. Phrony Tripper has that." This was not without intention.
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