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.”