When Merival Had read it, then he said to Borrow: "Read This letter to the other jurors." So He read it to them, as they sat one night, Invited to the home of Merival To drink a little wine and have a smoke, And talk about the case. ALMA BELL TO THE CORONER What my name is, or where I live, or if I am that Alma Bell whose name is broached With Elenor Murray's who shall know from this? My hand-writing I hide in type, I send This letter through a friend who will not tell. But first, since no chance ever yet was mine To speak my heart out, since if I had tried These fifteen years ago to tell my heart, I must have failed for lack of words and mind, I speak my heart out now. I knew the soul Of Elenor Murray, knew it at the time, Have verified my knowledge in these years, Who have not lost her, have kept touch with her In letters, know the splendid sacrifice She made in the war. She was a human soul Earth is not blest with often. First I say I knew her when she first came to my class Turned seventeen just then--such blue-bell eyes, And such a cataract of dark brown hair, And such a brow, sweet lips, and such a way Of talking with a cunning gasp, as if To catch breath for the words. And such a sense Of fitness, beauty, delicacy. But more Such vital power that shook her silver nerves, And made her dim to others; but to me She was all sanity of soul, her body, The instruments of life, were overborne By that great flame of hers. And if her music Fell sometimes into discord, which I doubt, It was her heart-strings which could not vibrate For human weakness, what the soul of her Struck for response; and when the strings so failed She was more grieved than I, or anyone, Who listened and expected more. Well, then What was my love? I am not loath to tell. I could not touch her hand without a thrill, Nor kiss her lips but I felt purified, Exalted in some way. And if fatigue, The hopeless, daily ills of teaching brought My spirit to distress, and if I went, As oftentimes I did, to call upon her After the school hours, as I heard her step Responding to my knock, my heart went up, Her face framed by the opened door--what peace Was mine to see it, peace ineffable And rest were mine to sit with her and hear That voice of hers where breath was caught for words, That cunning gasp and pause! I loved her then, Have loved her always, love her now no less. I feel her spirit somehow, can take out Her letters, photograph, and find a joy That such a soul lived, was in truth my soul, Must always be my soul.