which has never ceased to be yours, not even when you
doubted it and repulsed it harshly. Or, my dear Julie, had
you (for I could never do wrong by you) — had you done me
some wrong of which I was ignorant, and which it would
have been so sweet to pardon had I known of it ? You said
to one of my friends, who reproached you for the way in
which you treated me, and for which you blamed yourself,
that the reason of your change to me was because you
were unable to bare your soul to me and let me see the
wounds that rent it. Ah ! you knew by experience that I
had closed them more than once, of whatever nature they
were.
But why did I not discover myself the pain you felt at being unable to speak to me of your sorrows ? Why did I not forestall your confidence, and assist by all of mine the outpouring that you desired to make to me ? Twenty times have I been upon the point of throwing myself into your arms and asking you to tell me what was my crime ; but I feared that those arms would repulse mine that I held out to you. Your countenance, your words, your silence even, all seemed to forbid me to approach you. I thought sometimes to recall you by my tears, but the sad state of your suffering and de- stroyed body made me fear to depress you.
For nine months I sought the moment to tell you all I suffered and all I felt ; but during those nine months I always found you too feeble to bear the tender reproaches I had to make to you. The only moment when I could have shown to you, uncovered, my dejected and dismayed heart was that dreadful moment when, a few hours before your death, you asked me, in that heart-rending manner, for par- don, — last testimony of your love, the dear and cruel memory of which will ever remain in the depths of my heart. But you had then no longer the strength to either speak to me or
