"Oh, so that's it, is it. Well then, ye can be takin' it an' save me the trouble. An' by the way—there's a letter, too. I fergot about that. One moment an' I'll have it fer ye...."
She disappeared noisily. Judith stood staring out of the window. Imrie tried to fix his attention upon the books, but his eyes kept wandering miserably to Judith's unresponsive back, drooping like a wilted flower. Neither spoke. The stout woman returned in a surprisingly short time, considering her bulk.
"Here 'tis," she cried cheerfully, puffing like some inadequate engine. "I spilt a little cranberry on it, but that won't hurt the inside." She handed the envelope to Judith and stood waiting expectantly.
But Judith turned and accepted it without a word, her grey face as immobile as if made of stone. Quietly she moved nearer the whistling gas-light, and after a pause, as though she were girding herself for a struggle, she tore the flap quickly.
It was a short note:
"Dearest of Friends:
"This is my 'thirty.' My story's done—the candle's out.
"But after all, each one of us is only a page—perhaps only a letter—in the great Book. We're blotted out or torn away, but the Story goes on—always.
"The forms are closed on my tale. The wires are dead. But there's 'more to follow' in your story. And the big Yarn isn't finished because my take's all set. Even when the Foreman puts the blue envelope in your box, even then—there will be 'more to follow.'