"I have come to ask your forgiveness," she said with her old, direct simplicity. "I believed that you and the boy were—pardon me!—were stealing together; that you were letting yourself slip downward. This afternoon the boy came to me at St. Christopher's and told me the real story. I could hardly wait till I was free so that I could hurry to you and ask you to forgive me."
"Forgive you!" David said slowly.
"Forgive me for my unjust judgment," she went on, a quaver in her voice. "I judged from mere appearance, mere guess-work. I was cold—horrid. I am ashamed. Forgive me."
Her never-expected coming, her never-expected words, rendered him for the moment speechless. He could only gaze into her fresh face, so full of earnestness, of appeal.
"You do not forgive me?" she asked.
David thrilled at the tremulous note in her voice. "I have nothing to forgive. You could not help judging as you did."
Her deep brown eyes, looking straight into his face, continued the appeal.
"I forgive you," he said in a low voice.
"Thank you," she said simply; and she pressed his hand.
"And I came for something else," she went on, "I came to assure you of my friendship, if it can mean anything to you—to tell you how much I admire your brave and bitter upward struggle. I'd be so happy if there was some way I could help you, and if you'd let me."