One morning, in going out from his visit the doctor took George and his wife aside, and announced that he found the condition of their friend very grave.
When he had gone out, the young people, stricken down, looked at each other and then began to weep. They both watched that night near the bed. Bertha would embrace the sick one tenderly, while George, standing silently at the foot of her couch, would look at them with dogged persistence. The next day she was worse.
Finally, toward evening, she declared herself better, and persuaded her friends to go home to dinner.
They were sitting sadly at table, scarcely eating anything, when the maid brought George an envelope. He opened it, turned pale, and rising, said to his wife, in a constrained way: "Excuse me, I must leave you for a moment. I will return in ten minutes. Please don't go out." And he ran into his room for his hat.
Bertha waited, tortured by a new fear. But, yielding in all things, she would not go up to her friend's room again until he had returned.
As he did not re-appear, the thought came to her to look in his room to see whether he had taken his gloves, which would show whether he had really gone somewhere.
She saw them there, at first glance. Near them lay a rumpled paper.
She recognized it immediately; it was the one that had called George away.
And a burning temptation took possession of her, the first of her life, to read—to know. Her conscience struggled in revolt, but curiosity lashed her on and grief directed her hand. She seized the paper, opened it, recognized the trembling handwriting as that of Julie, and read:
"Come alone and embrace me, my poor friend; I am going to die."