Having absorbed these words, Juliana’s hand found strength to write, with little difficulty, what she had to say to Rose. She conceived it to be neither sublime nor generous: not even good; merely her peculiar duty. When it was done, she gave a long, low sigh of relief.
Caroline whispered, “Dearest child, are you awake?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Sorrowful, dear?”
“Very quiet.”
Caroline reached her hand over to her, and felt the paper. “What is this?”
“My good-bye to Rose. I want it folded now.”
Caroline slipped from the couch to fulfil her wish. She enclosed the pencilled scrap of paper, sealed it, and asked, “Is that right?”
“Now unlock my desk,” Juliana uttered, feebly. “Put it beside a letter addressed to a law-gentleman. Post both the morning I am gone.”
Caroline promised to obey, and coming to Juliana to mark her looks, observed a faint pleased smile dying away, and had her hand gently squeezed. Juliana’s conscience had preceded her contentedly to its last sleep; and she, beneath that round of light on the ceiling, drew on her counted breaths in peace till dawn.