I went to the middle of the room: I stood there gathering my wits. I heard a clock strike somewhere in the kitchen region below, from outside the window came the rattle of some conveyance, louder, louder, softer, softer. A passing boy whistled; I heard Julianna's step above me; I heard the dog licking his paws unconcernedly; I heard the curtains flap in the wind that filled the room; and finally its ironical little scream as it lifted from the desk the last opinion the Judge ever wrote and scattered the loose sheets all over the room. It brought in the dank smell of the garden. "I must tell her," I said aloud, and the old dog, senses dulled by age, wagged his tail. "I must tell her," I repeated, and toiled up the soft, carpeted stairs. She was waiting for me in her own room, standing under the soft light from a hanging, well-shaded, electric lamp. I see her there, clearly, with the smile fading from her face as she read my own. Indeed, it was not necessary for me to speak; before I had gathered courage to do so, I saw her bosom swell with a long breath. She inhaled it jerkily, as one who is suddenly shocked with a deluge of icy water. I saw the color fade as the smile had faded before it, and when I had nodded to indicate that she had guessed the truth, stepped forward, fearing that she would sway off her feet. "No, Jerry," she said, with her hands held tight at her sides. "I am all right. I had expected this some day soon. It is hard to believe, but has not come without warning. His heart--his great, loving heart--had--worn out. I do not want you to come with me. I am going down--alone." I moved my dry tongue in my mouth: a word of the strange circumstance of his death was there. But her courage--her steady body, her squared shoulders, her firm mouth, her eyes which showed her agony, but no sign of weakness, and her soft voice as she said, "Wait for me here"--restrained me. I pressed her fingers to my lips and as I saw her go out, I felt that perhaps never would the opportunity to tell the story I have told to-night come again. CHAPTER V AT DAWN I think it must have been nearly a half-hour--though the minutes were themselves hours--before I, waiting in the upper hall beside the window, through which the arc lights from the street threw jumping white patches on the ceiling, heard the sound of the old dog's claws on the floor below and her little catches of breath as she came up. At the top she buried her face for a moment on my shoulder. "I love you more than ever," she whispered. "I want you to stay.--Call Margaret and do what you can. I will come to you by and by." With these words she pressed my forearm in the grip of her strong fingers and, entering her own room, shut the door.