“You will find an old portfolio in the tick I was lying on. All the receipts for money paid and the contract are in it.”
As Margaret returned with the portfolio, a sheet of paper fell from it and fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and was about to restore it, when the sick woman said: “Read it. It will verify the statement I made a few moments ago.”
Margaret glanced along the page and saw that it was poetry written in a free-flowing hand. Seating herself beside the bed she read:
“O Soul, I am tired of you, tired!
You do nothing but think and feel,
And often you weep,
In some sensitive deep,
O’er wounds that you cannot heal.
“O Soul, I am tired of you, tired!
You have threaded the paths of life,