Mrs. Elbridge looked upon him with a trembling lip. "But, my dear, it is not more beautiful than the fact that you sent for your son and that you yourself have come back to us all." The Judge smiled. Florence could see that he was growing stronger, that his mind was clearing. "He returns like a lost child suddenly finding the path home," she said. "Faith has its wisdom and its reward," replied the Judge, looking at her. "In the days of the New Testament, you would have been one of the followers. You would have wiped His feet with your hair." And, looking at his watch, he added: "I wonder why William doesn’t come back." "It is not time," Mrs. Elbridge replied, glancing at the clock. "The minutes are hours, but clearing and strengthening hours," said the Judge. He turned about and began to walk up and down the room, with all the simpleness of his nature in his face. He did not look like a man who had sat in judgment upon the actions of men. His heart had cried for pardon, and a belief that it had come lighted his countenance. A man who has been shrewd in the affairs of the world, sharp in practice, suspicious, sometimes becomes simple and trustful in the love of a grandchild. And at this time, the Judge might have reminded one of such a man. Mrs. Elbridge stood in the door looking down the hall. The Judge halted to speak to Florence. "Forgiveness," said he, "is the essence of all that is noble in life. And do you forgive me?" "Yes," she said. "And I hope that I shall be forgiven all the falsehoods I have been forced to tell." "They were for her, Florence, and there is a virtue in an untruth that shields a heart." He moved closer to her and added: "I wonder at your strength and marvel at my weakness." "You were groping in the dark. It was not your fault, but your nature." "And you are my daughter again." "Yes," said Florence, "in love and in duty." Mrs. Elbridge went out. The Judge and Florence sat down to wait for William. He was a sort of way-station which must be reached before they could arrive at Howard. The Judge told her of the darkness through which he had passed, throwing new light upon it, as if she had not seen it, as she stood by, holding a torch. He spoke of Goyle, of his strange power; he told her of the newspaper cutting that gave account of his mind-reading, and finally he told her of Bodney’s confession. She was prepared, and showed no agitation. But there was grief on her face. Then he told her that he could not find it in his heart to condemn him. "In your own words, Florence, it was not his fault, but his nature. I will take him back, and not even Howard must know of his part in—in my darkness." "Howard ought to know everything," she said. "But not now, my dear; by degrees, as he shall be able to bear it. He is generous, and I believe he will forgive."