"You want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"Go on," was the judge's quiet reply.
"Then it is 'yes,' father."
A shadow passed over the face of the judge for an instant that carried Jean back to her childhood days, when she used to wonder, as she mused, why it was that her father always looked so sad.
"You have all the sweet ways of your mother, child," said the old man; "and in you I know the traits and intellect that I had hoped to nurture in the boy. For years you have been my comrade—my best loved daughter. I am growing old, now, quite old, and you must leave me."
As he spoke he ran his fingers through his hair, as if in its thinness and fading color he could discern advancing years.
Jean caught the hand that hung over the arm of the chair between her two and pressed it to her cheek.
"You make me happy, father!" she whispered. "Do you remember long ago I told you that you would some day be glad I was your boy? And so you are. Perhaps it is because I am so like you—I only wish I knew I was—or perhaps I have always loved you best, and yet I have not loved you enough, father."
"Yes, child. Yes, enough to drive away a grief and make me happy."