But things were not prolonged. His hand and the muscles of his forearm had tensed so often with the thought, with the idea, that the first blow went home. She never waked.
VII
He got the box, and opened it.
Inside was a long envelope, and written on that were the words:
“To be opened by my husband only after my death.”
That time had come!
Within the envelope was a letter. It was dated on the day of his return from his western trip, a few months before. He read:
“Dick, I love you!
“Does it seem strange to you that I should write it down?
“Listen, Dickie dear—I had to write it! I couldn't tell you when I was alive—but I just had to tell you, too. And now that I am dead, what I say will come to you with all of its sweetness increased; and all of its bitterness left out! It will, now that I am dead—or if you die first, you will never see this. This is from beyond the grave to you, Dickie dear, to make all your life good to you afterwards!