“Her writing!” he exclaimed. “ But so strange—so steady—so much like her writing when I first knew her. Why, Doctor, it is her old self—it’s Julianna.”
“Sit down,” I suggested.
He spread the papers on his knee.
As he read on, I saw the color leave his skin, I saw his hands draw the sheets so taut that there was danger of their parting under the strain. I heard the catch in each breath he took. As he read, I looked away, observing the refined elegance of the room in which we were sitting and even noting the bronze elephant on the mantel which I remembered was the very one which Judge Colfax had thrown at the dog “Laddie.” It was not until he had reached forward and touched my sleeve that I knew he had finished.
I looked up then. He had buried his head in the curve of his arm. His body seemed to stiffen and relax alternately as if unable to contain some great grief or some great joy which accumulated and burst forth, only to accumulate again.
I heard him whisper, “Julianna.”
I saw his hand extending the paper toward me with the evident meaning that I should read it.
I took it from him.
I have that very paper now. It reads as follows.