"Estabrook," he said, leaning forward toward me with his lips compressed, "sometime, perhaps years from now, perhaps never, but, if you choose, to-night--you may know what a problem I have had to solve, and what it will cost me to say to you that which I am going to say." He had lowered his voice as if he wished to be sure that no one could overhear him, and now, when he stopped, he stood with his head turned as if listening to be sure that no one was in the hallway. No sounds came, however, except those of the dog, who whined softly in his dreams, and the complaint of the dry wind, which, instead of diminishing with night, had perhaps increased its intensity, and the rattle of the long French windows through which I could see the gnarled old wistaria vine clinging desperately to the iron balcony, its leaves tossing about as if in agony. "I have sat on the bench for many years, trying with my imperfect intelligence to adjust the misshapen affairs of men and women," the Judge went on. "Never have I been forced to deal with so terrible a question as lies before me now--to-night." For a long time, then, he was silent. Finally I spoke. "Judge," said I, "how can I help?" "I am afraid," he said slowly, and apparently avoiding my gaze,--"I am afraid that I must call upon you in a manner which will severely weigh upon you. Estabrook," he put his hand upon my shoulder. "I've done my best. Do you hear? I've done my best." "I will never doubt it," I assured him. "Nor do you need to doubt me." He looked at me steadily for a second; then he went to a drawer and, opening it, took out a packet of folded papers. It was evident that he had placed it there so that he could reach it easily. I suppose that the gravity of his bearing, the trembling of his hands, in which these papers rustled, and the anxious expression with which he gazed at me, as if I were to decide some question of life or death, infected me with his unrest. I got up, paced back and forth, and finally sat down again facing his empty easy-chair, with my back to the long windows. The Judge watched every movement I made, his eyes staring out at me from under the brush of their brows. At last, when I had seated myself, he came and sat in front of me, laid the papers on his knees and smoothed them with the palm of his shaking hand. "My boy," he said, "I wrote these papers, not for you, but for my Julianna. Never has a man had a task so calculated to break his heart. She was not to read my message to her unless death came and took me, for while I lived, I felt that I might spare her. See! Her name is written across this outside page." I could find no words to fill the pauses which he seemed obliged to make, for, as you may well believe, I felt the presence of a crisis in my affairs--in the affairs of all of us. "But, my boy," he went on, "what these pages contain is now for you, if you so decide." "Decide?" I managed to say. "What must I decide?"