“Oh, father, you will, you will forgive me.”
“I come in, forsooth!” said the man. “I, who made a fool of myself this morning, and told that poor girl that she certainly had done it, but that if she confessed I would forgive her!”
“Then there is a similar case,” said Angela. “Penelope has confessed, so you ought to forgive her.”
“I don’t know—I don’t know,” he said.
“Oh, father, mayn’t I bring Betty down, and may I tell her that I was the real thief?”
“No good in that, child. No good in making it public.”
“Of course, father, you’ll have to forgive Pen,” said Jim’s sturdy young voice at that moment.
“If you wish it, Jim—if you wish it, of course there is nothing more to be said. What do you feel about it? You have metal in you; you’re made of the right stuff. What do you feel about this matter?”
“I feel that I have never loved Pen more than I do at this moment. I never was so proud of her. She has grit in her, she is worth all the rest of us, to my way of thinking.”
“No, that is not so; but if you wish it, Jim, and you, Miss St. Just.”