To the witness.--Did Jane
Hardie know she was dying?
"Oh yes, sir. She told us all so."
"To whom did she give this letter?"
"To my sister."
"Oh, to your sister? To Miss Julia Dodd?"
"Yes, sir. But not for herself. It was to give to Alfred Hardie."
"Can you read the letter? It is rather faintly written. It is written in
pencil, my lord."
"I _could_ read it, sir; but I hope you will excuse me. She that wrote it
was very, very dear to me."
The young man's full voice faltered as he uttered these words, and he
turned his lion-like eyes soft and imploring on the judge. That venerable
and shrewd old man, learned in human nature as well as in law,
comprehended in a moment, and said kindly, "You misunderstand him.
Witnesses do not read letters _out_ in court. Let the letter be handed up
to me." This was fortunate, for the court cuckoo, who intones most
letters, would have read all the sense and pathos out of this, with his
monotonous sing-song.
The judge read it carefully to himself with his glasses, and told the
jury it seemed a genuine document: then the crier cried "Silence in the
court," and his lordship turned towards the jury and read the letter
slowly and solemnly:
_"DEAR, DEAR BROTHER,--Your poor little Jane lies dying, suddenly but not
painfully, and my last earthly thoughts are for my darling brother.
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