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Johnsy lay there, very thin and very quiet. Her face was turned toward the window.
Sue stopped singing, thinking that Johnsy was asleep.

Sue began to work. As she worked she heard a low sound, again and again. She went
quickly to the bedside. Johnsy’s eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window

and counting, counting back. “Twelve,” she said; and a little later, “Eleven”; and then,

“Ten,”and, “Nine”; and then, “Eight,” and, “Seven,” almost together.
Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? There was only the side wall of

the next house, a short distance away. The wall had no window. An old, old tree grew

against the wall. The cold breath of winter had already touched it. Almost all its leaves
had fallen from its dark branches.

“What is it, dear?” asked Sue.

“Six,” said Johnsy, in a voice still lower. “They’re falling faster now. Three days ago
there were almost a hundred. It hurt my head to count them. But now it’s easy. There

goes another one. There are only five now.”

“Five what, dear? Tell your Sue.”

“Leaves. On the tree. When the last one falls, I must go, too. I’ve known that for three
days. Didn’t the doctor tell you?”

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