"Poor woman!" I said with a sudden awakening of sympathy. "Poor, poor woman!" With my whispered words repeating themselves in my mind, I retraced my way along the hall, down the stairs. I opened the front door quietly. My first glance showed me the countenance of the old servant; it was lighted by the words which the young man was saying to her. "Estabrook," said I. He jumped like a wounded man. "She is not dead?" he groaned. "No," said I; "not dead. Come in. She has sent for you." "Sent for me!" he cried, trying to dash by me. "Wait," I commanded. "Before you go, come into this reception room. This message is for you." He took the envelope, almost crunching it in his nervous fingers. "Remember what I told you," I cautioned him. "Told me?" "Yes. To be strong," said I. "To be loyal." He nodded, then ran his finger under the flap. There were several sheets of thin paper folded within. "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. BOOK VIII FROM THE WOMAN'S HAND CHAPTER I THE VOICE OF THE BLOOD I am a miserable woman. Before I ask you to return to me, I am determined that you shall know the truth. I beg you to read this and consider well what I am and what I have done before you undertake life with me or again bring your love into my keeping. This I ask for your sake and for my own; for yours, because I grant that you have been deceived and owe me nothing; for my own, because I believe that I have borne all that I can, and to have you come back to me without knowing all, and without still loving me as you used to love me, would break my heart. I must not write you with emotion; I must stifle my desire to cry out for your sympathy. I shall write without even the tenderness of a woman.