(_She walks to the table, unfastening the envelope_.)
_Helen_. What sent that thrill of forgotten life through me then?--that
wild, delicious thrill? This is strange, indeed. A sealed pacquet
within! and here--
(_She glances at the superscription, and the pacquet
drops from her hand_.)
No--no. I have seen that hand-writing in my dreams before, but it
dissolved always. What's joy better than grief, if it pierce thus? Can
never a one of all the soul's deep melodies on this poor instrument be
played out, then--trembling and jarring thus, even at the breath of its
most lovely passion.--And yet, it is some cruel thing, I know.
(_The pacquet opened, discovers Helen's miniature, a book,
a ring, and other tokens_.)
Cruel indeed! That little rose!--He might have spared me this. A dull
reader I were, in truth, if this needed comment,--but I knew it before.
He might have spared me this.
(_She leans over the recovered relics with a burst
of passionate weeping_.)
Yet, who knows--(_lifting her head with a sudden smile_,) some trace,
some little curl of his pencil I may find among these leaves yet, to
tell me, as of old,--
(_A letter drops from the book, she tears it eagerly open_.
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