“Question her,” whispered Geraldine, who seemed quite excited in the matter, and Mr. Thornton did question her, but if she were deceiving them she had learned her lesson well, for no amount of cross-questioning could induce her to commit herself. Indeed she seemed, in spite of her looks, to be a sensible, straightforward woman, who was doing what she felt to be her duty. “She had never lost sight of Mildred,” she said; “and knowing that Judge Howell had adopted her, she had concluded not to divulge the secret until she heard that she was to marry Lawrence. But have you read the letter?” she asked. “That will prove that I am not lying.” “Surely,” chimed in Geraldine. “I had forgotten that,” and she handed to Mr. Thornton his daughter’s letter, which he read through, saying, when he had finished: “It is Helen’s handwriting, and it must be true.” Then passing it to the Judge he asked if it resembled the letter he received from the Maine woman. “Good thunder, how do I know,” returned the Judge. “I tore that into giblets. I can’t remember eighteen years; besides that, I’m bound not to believe it, hanged if I do. I’ve made up my mind latterly that Gipsy belonged to Dick, and I’ll be blamed if I don’t stick to that through thick and thin.” But whatever the Judge might wish to believe, he was obliged to confess that the evidence was against him, and when at an early hour the next morning the four assembled again for consultation, he said to Mr. Thornton: “You want to see your granddaughter, I suppose?” “I’d like to, yes,” was the reply, to which the Judge responded: “Well, come along, though hanged if I believe it.” From Geraldine, Mildred had learned what Mr. Thornton said, and that he would probably wish to see her in the morning. This swept away the last lingering hope, and with a kind of nervous terror she awaited his visit, trembling when she heard him in the hall, and looking fearfully round for some means of escape. “Here, Milly,” said the Judge, bustling up to her and forcing a levity he did not feel, “here’s your _grandfather_ come to see you.” “No, no, no,” sobbed Mildred, creeping closer to the Judge and hiding her white face in her hands. “There, Bobum,” said the Judge, smoothing her disordered hair and dropping a tear upon it. “You see she don’t take kindly to her new _grandad_. Better give it up, for I tell you it’s a big lie.” “Mildred,” said Mr. Thornton, seating himself upon the side of the bed, and taking one of the little feverish hands in his, “there can be no doubt that what we have heard is true, and if so, you are my child, and as such very dear to me. You are young yet, darling, and though your disappointment, as far as Lawrence is concerned, is terrible, you will overcome it in time. The knowing he is your uncle will help you so to do, and you will be happy with us yet. Don’t you think so, dear?”