The Last Leaf (for Advanced Levels C1-C2)

The Last Leaf is one of the best-known short stories by the American writer O. Henry, the pen name of William Sydney Porter. Published in the early twentieth century, the story remains popular because of its emotional power, unexpected ending, and exploration of friendship, sacrifice, hope, and the will to live.

O. Henry was famous for short stories featuring ordinary people, emotional situations, gentle humor, and surprising endings. The Last Leaf is a particularly memorable example of his style.

The story is set in Greenwich Village, New York, a neighborhood associated with artists and writers. Two young artists, Sue and Johnsy, share a small studio and struggle to build their careers. Their friendship becomes especially important when Johnsy develops pneumonia and becomes seriously ill.

As her condition worsens, Johnsy loses her desire to live. Looking through her window, she watches the leaves falling from an old ivy vine and becomes convinced that when the final leaf falls, her own life will end. Sue desperately tries to convince her that the leaves have nothing to do with her recovery.

Their neighbor, Behrman, is an elderly and unsuccessful painter who has spent many years dreaming of creating a masterpiece. Although he appears rough and impatient, he deeply cares about the two young women. His actions eventually become central to the story’s powerful ending.

After a terrible storm, Johnsy expects the final leaf to disappear. Yet the next morning, it is still there. Its survival gradually changes her attitude toward life. She regains her appetite, strength, and desire to live.

The truth behind the leaf is revealed only at the end, giving the story its characteristic emotional impact and irony.

This version of The Last Leaf has been rewritten for learners at CEFR C1 level. It preserves the original plot, characters, atmosphere, emotional development, symbolism, and unexpected ending while presenting the language in a form that is both accessible and valuable to advanced learners.

The adaptation uses sophisticated but natural vocabulary, varied sentence structures, descriptive language, complex grammar, natural dialogue, and nuanced expressions. Rather than studying isolated vocabulary, learners encounter advanced English within a meaningful literary context.

As you read, pay attention not only to what happens but also to how the story is told. Notice how descriptions create atmosphere, how dialogue reveals personality, and how characters’ emotions develop.

Why Should You Read This Story?

There are several reasons why The Last Leaf is worth reading as a C1 English learner.

First, it is a short but emotionally powerful literary story, allowing you to experience a complete narrative while encountering sophisticated English.

Second, it contains useful vocabulary and grammatical structures in meaningful contexts, making new expressions easier to understand and remember.

Third, the story explores universal human experiences such as hope, despair, friendship, courage, and sacrifice.

Fourth, it demonstrates O. Henry’s skillful use of surprise and irony. The final revelation encourages readers to reconsider earlier details from a new perspective.

Finally, The Last Leaf shows how literature can make English learning both educational and enjoyable. You are not simply studying vocabulary and grammar; you are experiencing English through characters, emotions, conflict, atmosphere, and ideas.

As you read, try to understand unfamiliar expressions from context before using a dictionary. Pay attention to the characters’ language, descriptive techniques, and the way suspense is created.

The Last Leaf is ultimately a story about hope, friendship, sacrifice, and compassion. For an advanced English learner, it is also an opportunity to develop vocabulary, grammar, reading comprehension, literary awareness, and confidence.

The Last Leaf has been carefully adapted and rewritten by LearnEnglish-new.com for advanced English learners. The original work by O. Henry is in the public domain. This learner-friendly adaptation uses clear, natural English while preserving the main characters, events, emotional depth, symbolism, and themes of the original story. It is designed to help C1 learners develop their reading comprehension, vocabulary, appreciation of literary English, and understanding of themes such as friendship, hope, sacrifice, and the will to live. Enjoy reading and improve your English skills!

The Last Leaf

By O. Henry

Contents

Chapter One: The Falling Leaves

Chapter Two: The Old Artist

Chapter Three: The Last Leaf

Chapter Four: The Masterpiece

Vocabulary

Comprehension Questions

Grammar Exercises

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Chapter One

The Falling Leaves

In the western part of Washington Square, Greenwich Village seemed to have been designed by someone who had little respect for straight lines. The streets twisted unexpectedly, crossed themselves, narrowed into crooked passages, and ended in small places with names that sounded almost accidental. Old brick houses leaned toward one another as if sharing secrets, while narrow windows looked down upon the streets from beneath worn wooden frames.

Artists had discovered the neighborhood long before the rest of the city understood its value. They came because the rents were low, the buildings were old, and the northern light was good enough for painting. They came because the strange streets and weathered walls seemed to belong to another century. Before long, painters, writers, musicians, and other young people who were determined to become artists had formed a small colony there.

Among them were two young women who shared a studio at the top of a three-story brick building.

One was Sue, a young artist from Maine. The other was Johnsy, whose real name was Joanna, a young woman from California. They had met by chance in a small restaurant on Eighth Street. Their conversation had begun with art and ended with a surprising discovery that they liked many of the same things: certain painters, certain foods, and the particular style of clothing that was fashionable among young women of their generation.

Their friendship had grown quickly. Soon they were sharing a studio, their money, their meals, their ambitions, and the uncertain life of young artists.

They were not successful yet.

Sue spent long hours drawing illustrations for magazines, hoping that one day her work would be noticed. Johnsy painted whenever she could afford the time and materials. Both women dreamed of better studios, larger exhibitions, and the day when they would no longer have to calculate every coin before buying a tube of paint.

But they were happy.

At least, they had been.

Then November came.

The cold arrived suddenly, and with it came a wet wind that moved through Greenwich Village as if it had a personal grudge against everyone who lived there. Rain darkened the old brick walls. The narrow streets became damp and gray. The ivy that covered one of the walls behind Sue and Johnsy’s building began to lose its leaves.

Then pneumonia appeared in the neighborhood.

The doctors called it pneumonia, but to the people who lived there it seemed almost like an invisible creature moving from building to building. Some people recovered. Others did not. It entered crowded rooms and poorly heated apartments, choosing its victims without regard for age, ambition, or kindness.

Johnsy became ill.

At first, Sue tried to convince herself that it was only a bad fever. She stayed beside her friend, brought her medicine, prepared food, and tried to continue working whenever Johnsy slept.

But the illness became worse.

One morning, after examining Johnsy, the doctor asked Sue to follow him into the hallway.

His expression was serious.

“She has a very small chance,” he said quietly.

“How small?”

The doctor hesitated.

“Perhaps one in ten.”

Sue stared at him.

“But she can recover, can’t she?”

“Of course she can. Medicine can do its part. Nursing can do its part. But there is another problem.”

“What problem?”

The doctor looked toward the bedroom.

“She has stopped believing that she will get better.”

Sue lowered her eyes.

The doctor continued. “When a patient begins to think about death instead of recovery, the medicines have a much harder task. She must want to live.”

Sue swallowed.

“She has always wanted to paint the Bay of Naples,” she said. “She talks about it often.”

The doctor smiled faintly.

“Then remind her of that. Give her something to look forward to.”

He paused before adding, “If she begins thinking about funeral arrangements instead of painting, her chances become much worse.”

After he left, Sue stood alone in the hallway.

For a moment she allowed herself to cry.

Then she wiped her eyes, returned to the room, and forced a cheerful expression onto her face.

Johnsy was lying perfectly still beneath the blankets.

Sue picked up her drawing board.

“I’ve got work to finish,” she said brightly.

Johnsy did not answer.

Sue began drawing.

For several minutes the only sound in the room was the scratching of her pen.

Then she heard something.

A whisper.

“Ten.”

Sue looked up.

Johnsy was staring toward the window.

“What did you say?”

“Ten.”

Sue followed her gaze.

Outside the window was a small, empty yard. Beyond it stood the blank brick wall of another building. An old ivy vine climbed across the wall. Most of its leaves had already fallen.

“What are you counting?” Sue asked.

Johnsy did not look at her.

“Nine.”

Sue moved closer.

“Johnsy?”

“Eight.”

Her voice was barely audible.

Sue looked through the glass.

There was nothing unusual outside. Only the ivy.

“Seven.”

Sue understood.

“You’re counting the leaves?”

Johnsy nodded.

“There were almost a hundred three days ago,” she whispered. “They fell so quickly that I could hardly count them. Now there are only a few.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything.”

Sue tried to laugh.

“Since when did ivy leaves become doctors?”

Johnsy remained silent.

“One falls,” she said.

Sue looked outside.

A leaf had disappeared.

“Six.”

“Johnsy, listen to me. The doctor said you have a chance.”

“I know.”

“He said you can recover.”

“I know.”

“Then stop watching the leaves.”

Johnsy finally turned toward her.

“When the last leaf falls,” she said, “I will die.”

Sue stared at her.

“What?”

“I’ve known it for three days.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I can feel it.”

“You are sick. That’s all.”

Johnsy shook her head.

“When the last leaf falls, my life will end with it.”

Sue sat beside her.

“You cannot decide something like that.”

“I already have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

Johnsy turned toward the window again.

Five leaves remained.

Sue tried everything she could think of. She joked. She talked about food. She mentioned clothes, paintings, magazines, and future plans. She even exaggerated the doctor’s optimism.

But Johnsy listened without interest.

As evening approached, another leaf fell.

Four remained.

Johnsy watched them with the concentration of someone waiting for a verdict.

“I want to see the last one fall,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Then I won’t have to wait anymore.”

Sue felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the November weather.

She wanted to pull the curtain closed, but Johnsy insisted that it remain open.

“I need to see it.”

Sue finally agreed.

Outside, the remaining leaves trembled in the wind.

The sky darkened.

And somewhere beneath them, in the apartment below, lived an old painter who had spent forty years dreaming of a masterpiece he had never managed to create.

His name was Behrman.

Neither Sue nor Johnsy knew yet how closely his unfinished dream was connected to the last leaf.

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Chapter Two

The Old Artist

Behrman lived on the ground floor of the same building.

He was more than sixty years old, short and broad, with a large beard that made him look like a difficult mixture of an ancient prophet and a badly behaved child. His face was usually red, his voice was usually loud, and his temper could change without warning.

He had been an artist for most of his life.

Unfortunately, he had never become a successful one.

For forty years he had talked about painting a masterpiece.

He had imagined it many times.

He had discussed it with other artists.

He had described what it would look like.

He had even prepared a canvas.

But the canvas remained blank.

It had stood on an easel in his room for years, waiting for the first decisive stroke of the brush.

Behrman earned a little money by posing for younger artists. Occasionally he painted small commercial pictures, but he considered such work beneath his dignity. In his mind, his real artistic life had not yet begun.

“One day,” he would say, “I will paint my masterpiece.”

The young artists in the building had heard the promise so often that they sometimes smiled when he said it.

But they also respected him.

For all his roughness, Behrman cared deeply about Sue and Johnsy. He had adopted them, in his own way, as if he were an angry old guardian who happened to live downstairs.

He complained about their work.

He criticized their paintings.

He called them foolish when they spent too much money.

But if either of them needed help, Behrman was usually the first person to appear.

That afternoon, Sue went downstairs.

She found him in his dim studio.

The smell of paint and alcohol hung in the air.

“Mr. Behrman,” she said, “I need your help.”

Behrman looked at her suspiciously.

“With what?”

“I need you to pose for me.”

“For what?”

“For an illustration. An old hermit miner.”

Behrman frowned.

“I am an artist, not a circus animal.”

Sue almost smiled.

“You are also the only person I know who looks exactly like the character.”

“I look like a masterpiece,” Behrman declared.

“You look like an old miner.”

He grunted.

Then Sue told him about Johnsy.

She explained the illness, the doctor’s warning, and Johnsy’s strange belief that her life was tied to the ivy leaves.

Behrman’s expression changed.

At first he looked angry.

Then he looked frightened.

Finally, his anger returned.

“What kind of foolishness is this?” he demanded. “A young woman believes she will die because leaves fall from a vine?”

“She is very ill.”

“Then she must be cared for, not encouraged in such nonsense.”

“I know.”

“And you let her watch the leaves?”

“I tried to stop her.”

Behrman shook his head.

“You young artists are all crazy.”

Sue sighed.

“Will you pose for me or not?”

Behrman suddenly shouted that he would not.

Then, almost immediately, he changed his mind.

“Yes,” he said. “I will pose.”

Sue smiled.

“Thank you.”

“I have been trying to say yes for ten minutes.”

“You have been shouting no for ten minutes.”

“That is because you are a woman and do not understand artists.”

Sue laughed softly.

But Behrman did not laugh.

He looked toward the window.

Outside, the afternoon was fading.

The rain had become heavier.

“You say there are only a few leaves left?”

“Yes.”

“And she believes the last one will kill her?”

“Yes.”

Behrman muttered something under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Sue looked at him.

“Mr. Behrman?”

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

“I am fine.”

He turned away.

“Take me upstairs.”

They went up.

Johnsy was asleep.

Sue quietly pulled the curtain across the window.

She led Behrman into the other room, where they could see the ivy from a different angle.

Only one leaf remained.

Behrman stared at it.

The rain struck the glass.

The wind pushed against the old building.

“That leaf will not survive the night,” Sue whispered.

Behrman said nothing.

He stood at the window for a long time.

Then he looked toward the blank wall beyond the glass.

Something passed through his expression that Sue could not understand.

She assumed he was angry.

Perhaps he was.

Perhaps he was frightened.

Perhaps he was simply thinking about the foolishness of a young woman who had allowed an ivy leaf to determine the value of her life.

“Come,” Sue said. “You must pose.”

Behrman nodded.

But before leaving the window, he looked once more at the final leaf.

It was small.

It clung stubbornly to the vine.

Its edges had already begun to turn yellow.

Outside, the wind was growing stronger.

The weather forecast could not have been worse.

By evening, the rain had become almost continuous. Cold gusts struck the walls and rattled the windows. The old building seemed to tremble beneath them.

Johnsy woke briefly.

“Is it still there?” she asked.

Sue knew what she meant.

“Yes.”

“For now.”

Johnsy closed her eyes again.

“I’ll look in the morning.”

Sue stayed beside her.

Behrman returned to his apartment.

The storm intensified.

For hours, rain swept through the streets of Greenwich Village. The gutters overflowed. The old bricks became black with water. The wind tore at every loose branch and shutter it could reach.

Sue eventually fell asleep beside Johnsy.

Behrman remained awake. His studio was dark.

The blank canvas stood in its usual place. He looked at it.

Then he looked toward the window.

He seemed to remember every year he had spent promising himself that one day he would paint his masterpiece.

Forty years.

Forty years of waiting.

Forty years of ambition, failure, pride, and disappointment.

Then he took his coat. He picked up a lantern.

He gathered his brushes and paints. And he opened the door.

The storm was waiting.

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Chapter Three

The Last Leaf

When Sue woke the next morning, the room was gray with early light. For a moment she did not remember where she was.

Then she saw Johnsy.

The girl was awake.

Her eyes were fixed on the closed curtain.

“Pull it up,” she whispered.

Sue hesitated.

“Are you sure?”

“I want to see.”

Sue slowly crossed the room.

Her fingers touched the curtain.

For the first time, she was afraid to look outside.

She pulled it upward.

Johnsy stared through the window.

There, against the wet brick wall, was the ivy vine.

And on it was one leaf.

The last leaf.

It was still there.

For several seconds neither woman spoke.

The storm had spent itself during the night. Rainwater ran down the brick wall. The sky remained dark, and the wind still moved through the narrow streets.

But the leaf remained.

Its stem was dark.

Its edges were yellow.

It looked fragile enough to disappear at any moment.

Yet it clung to the vine.

Johnsy stared at it.

“I thought it would fall,” she said.

“So did I.”

“The wind was terrible.”

“Yes.”

“It should be gone.”

Sue smiled.

“But it isn’t.”

Johnsy said nothing.

For a long time she watched the leaf.

Then she turned her head toward the pillow.

“I’ve been wrong.”

Sue sat beside her.

“About what?”

“About dying.”

Sue took her hand.

Johnsy’s fingers were cold.

“I think that leaf has something to teach me.”

Sue smiled carefully.

“It certainly has taught you not to trust ivy leaves as doctors.”

Johnsy almost laughed.

It was a weak laugh, but it was the first laughter Sue had heard from her in days.

The leaf remained.

Morning became afternoon.

Johnsy continued to look at it.

She expected it to fall.

But it did not.

The wind returned.

The rain began again.

Still it remained.

Something inside Johnsy had begun to change.

She could not explain exactly when it happened.

Perhaps it began when she realized that the leaf had survived the storm. Perhaps it began when she understood that she had been waiting for death rather than fighting for life.

Whatever the reason, her thoughts slowly turned away from the window and toward the world beyond it.

“I have been a terrible person,” she said suddenly.

Sue looked up from her work.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I was ready to give up.”

“You were sick.”

“I know. But I was wrong.”

Sue put down her pencil.

“What do you want?”

Johnsy looked at the leaf.

“I want to eat something.”

Sue’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“Some broth.”

“Of course.”

“And perhaps some milk.”

“With a little port?”

Johnsy smiled.

“With a little port.”

Sue almost ran to the kitchen.

As she prepared the broth, she heard Johnsy call from the bedroom.

“Sue?”

“Yes?”

“Bring me a mirror.”

“A mirror?”

“Yes. I want to see what I look like.”

Sue smiled.

She brought the mirror.

Johnsy looked at her reflection.

She was pale and thin, but there was something new in her eyes.

Life.

“I look terrible,” she said.

“You look like someone who has been ill.”

“I’ll look better soon.”

“You will.”

Johnsy turned toward the window again.

The leaf was still there.

“I would like to paint the Bay of Naples someday,” she said.

Sue stood very still.

For several days that dream had seemed impossible.

Now it sounded like a promise.

“You will,” Sue said.

“I want to see the sea again.”

“You will.”

“I want to travel.”

“You will.”

“And I want to paint.”

“You certainly will.”

Johnsy smiled.

The doctor arrived that afternoon.

He examined her carefully.

Then he looked at Sue.

“This is much better.”

“Is she out of danger?”

“I think so.”

Sue exhaled.

“But she needs food, rest, and careful nursing. Most importantly, she must continue believing that she can recover.”

Sue nodded.

The doctor gathered his things.

“There is another patient downstairs,” he said. “An old artist named Behrman.”

Sue’s expression changed.

“Is he ill?”

“Very ill.”

“With pneumonia?”

“Yes.”

“How serious?”

The doctor looked uncomfortable.

“Extremely serious. He was exposed to terrible weather. He has little chance.”

Sue felt a sudden uneasiness.

She glanced toward the window.

The last leaf was still there.

She remembered Behrman’s face the previous afternoon.

She remembered the storm.

She remembered how he had stared at the ivy.

But she could not understand the connection.

The doctor left.

Johnsy continued recovering.

The next morning she could sit up.

A few days later she was able to walk across the room.

The broth disappeared.

Then the milk.

Then toast.

Then other food.

Her appetite returned with remarkable speed.

The transformation seemed almost miraculous, but Sue knew that it had begun with something much simpler.

Johnsy had wanted to live again.

One afternoon, while Sue was arranging her paints, Johnsy looked out of the window.

The last leaf was still there.

She smiled.

“It’s strange,” she said.

“What?”

“I used to think it was waiting to die.”

“And now?”

“Now I think it was waiting for me.”

Sue laughed.

“You have become very philosophical.”

“Perhaps being ill has made me think.”

“That can be dangerous.”

Johnsy smiled.

For the first time in many days, the room felt warm.

Outside, the weather had begun to improve.

The storm had passed.

But the old leaf remained.

Neither woman knew that its survival had cost another person his life.

Neither knew that, during the worst part of the storm, an old artist had climbed a ladder into the darkness.

Neither knew that the final leaf was not a leaf at all.

It was a painting.

And somewhere below them, Behrman was fighting for his life.

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Chapter Four

The Masterpiece

Johnsy recovered quickly. The doctor came again and declared that she was out of danger.

“She has won,” he told Sue. “Now she needs good food, rest, and time.”

Sue felt an enormous weight lift from her shoulders.

For days she had been terrified that she would lose her friend.

Now Johnsy was sitting by the window, knitting a scarf she had no particular reason to make.

It was an unpleasant shade of blue.

“You’ll never wear that,” Sue said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you making it?”

“Because I enjoy making it.”

Sue smiled.

That answer was enough.

Life had returned to the room.

Johnsy had begun talking about paintings again. She discussed colors, landscapes, and the Bay of Naples. She complained about her unfinished sketches and promised that one day she would paint something worth showing to the world.

Sue listened happily.

Then the door opened.

She looked up.

The news on the doctor’s face was not the news she had expected.

“Johnsy is going to be fine,” he said.

Sue smiled.

“I know.”

“But I have another patient.”

“Behrman?”

The doctor nodded.

“He died today.”

Sue’s smile disappeared.

“What?”

“Pneumonia.”

She stared at him.

“He had been ill only a short time?”

“Only two days.”

Sue looked toward the window.

The last leaf was still there.

The doctor continued.

“He was found in his room after the storm. His condition was already terrible. He had been outside in the rain and cold for hours.”

Sue felt a chill.

“Outside?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

The doctor nodded.

“The janitor found him helpless. His clothes were soaked through, and his shoes were covered in mud and ice. He was brought to the hospital, but the infection had already taken hold.”

Sue said nothing.

The doctor left.

For several moments she stood in the hallway.

Then she went back into the room.

Johnsy looked at her.

“What happened?”

Sue sat beside her.

“I have something to tell you.”

Johnsy stopped knitting.

“Is it bad?”

“It is about Mr. Behrman.”

Johnsy’s face became serious.

“What happened?”

“He died.”

The knitting slipped from Johnsy’s hands.

“Oh.”

“He had pneumonia.”

Johnsy lowered her head.

“But he was old.”

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

Sue took a breath.

“He became ill after the storm.”

Johnsy looked toward the window.

“After the storm?”

“Yes.”

Sue moved closer.

“Do you remember the night when the last leaf was supposed to fall?”

Johnsy nodded.

“Do you remember how hard the wind was?”

“Yes.”

“And how much it rained?”

“Yes.”

Sue looked at the window.

“Then look carefully at the leaf.”

Johnsy turned.

“What about it?”

“Did you ever wonder why it never moved?”

Johnsy frowned.

“I thought it was strong.”

Sue shook her head.

“No leaf could have survived that storm.”

Johnsy stared at her.

“What do you mean?”

Sue took her hand.

“The leaf is not real.”

Johnsy did not understand.

“What?”

“It was painted.”

A silence filled the room.

“Painted?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

Sue’s eyes filled with tears.

“Behrman.”

Johnsy stared at the wall.

Then at the leaf.

Then back at Sue.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

Sue spoke slowly.

“After you fell asleep, Behrman went outside.”

Johnsy’s eyes widened.

“He went outside in that storm?”

“He took a lantern, brushes, paints, and a ladder.”

Johnsy covered her mouth.

“The janitor found the ladder the next morning. He found the lantern, too. It was still burning. There were brushes and a palette on the ground.”

Johnsy whispered, “And the paint?”

“Green and yellow.”

Johnsy looked again.

The final leaf seemed different now.

It was no longer simply an ivy leaf.

It was the work of an old man who had spent forty years waiting to create something worthy of the word masterpiece.

Behrman had found it in the darkness.

He had climbed the ladder in the rain.

He had stood against the freezing wind.

He had painted the leaf onto the wall while the real leaf fell away.

Then he had returned downstairs.

And the cold had entered his body.

Two days later, he was dead.

Johnsy’s eyes filled with tears.

“He saved me.”

Sue nodded.

“He gave you something to believe in.”

“He gave me his life.”

Sue did not answer.

For a while they sat in silence.

Outside the window, the painted leaf remained exactly where it had always been.

It did not tremble.

It did not twist in the wind.

It did not fall.

It simply remained.

Johnsy finally stood.

She walked slowly toward the window.

Her hand touched the glass.

“I thought it was telling me to die,” she said.

Sue came beside her.

“But it was telling you to live.”

Johnsy closed her eyes.

She thought of Behrman.

She remembered his rough voice, his enormous beard, his anger, his ridiculous promises about the masterpiece he had never painted.

She remembered how he had complained about young artists.

She remembered how he had called her foolish.

She remembered none of this with resentment.

Instead, she saw something she had failed to notice before.

Behind all his shouting had been tenderness.

Behind his insults had been concern.

Behind his lifelong artistic failure had been an extraordinary capacity for sacrifice.

Behrman had finally painted his masterpiece.

He had not painted it in a comfortable studio.

He had not painted it for an exhibition.

He had not painted it to earn money or receive praise.

He had painted it for one frightened young woman who had forgotten how to hope.

Johnsy turned toward Sue.

“I want to paint again.”

Sue smiled through her tears.

“I know.”

“I want to finish my picture.”

“You will.”

“And someday…”

Johnsy looked toward the window.

“Someday I will paint the Bay of Naples.”

Sue put an arm around her.

“Yes.”

Outside, the city continued as it always had.

People walked along the narrow streets.

Carriages passed.

Artists carried canvases beneath their arms.

Rainwater slowly disappeared from the gutters.

The old buildings stood quietly beneath the winter sky.

And on the brick wall, high above the ground, one ivy leaf remained.

It was not alive.

Yet it had given life.

It had no roots, yet it had inspired hope.

It had no voice, yet it had persuaded a dying girl to remain in the world.

And it had been created by a man who had spent most of his life believing that his greatest work was still waiting somewhere in the future.

Behrman had always imagined that his masterpiece would be a painting that would make people admire his talent.

He had been wrong. His masterpiece was the painting that someone needed.

The final leaf was not beautiful because it was perfectly painted.

It was beautiful because it had cost him everything.

Johnsy never again looked at an ivy leaf in quite the same way. Whenever she painted, she remembered the old artist downstairs.

Whenever she felt discouraged, she remembered the night when the wind had howled around the building and one painted leaf had remained.

And whenever she thought about giving up, she remembered that courage does not always arrive as a great decision.

Sometimes it appears quietly.

Sometimes it is hidden behind a window.

Sometimes it is painted in the darkness by someone who asks for nothing in return.

The leaf remained on the wall.

The girl remained alive. And the old artist, who had waited forty years to paint his masterpiece, had finally created one.

The End

Read the original story: americanliterature.com

Vocabulary

Comprehension Questions

Grammar Exercises

Answer Key

1-B, 2-B, 3-A, 4-C, 5-B, 6-D, 7-A, 8-A, 9-A, 10-A, 11-B, 12-B, 13-C, 14-A, 15-B, 16-C, 17-C, 18-B, 19-A, 20-B

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