Her face grew sad and full of pity as she listened to him, and realized something of the wrong that had been suffered for so many years, and when he had finished she said simply:
“Yes, I can give you comfort. Come with me.”
How his heart bounded at the words “I can give you comfort;” and, heaving a breath that was almost a sob, a cry of thankfulness went up to God from his heart for the light that was beginning to shine upon his darkened life.
Miss Isabel Grafton, for that was the lady’s name, led the way toward a small villa, built in the Gothic style, near by.
It was a charming little place, covered with vines and climbing roses, and surrounded by noble trees with here and there a patch of gay flowers adding brightness to the scene.
She invited him to enter, and ushered him into a cool and shady parlor, when she excused herself for a few moments. She was not gone long, and when she returned she carried two or three large books in her hand.
“These books,” she explained, laying them carefully upon the table, as if they were a precious treasure, “comprise my father’s diary, and, I think, never during his life did he omit the record of a single day. I have taken a sad pleasure,” she continued, with a starting tear, “in reading them since his death, and I also think that there is considerable here regarding the events of which you speak. Now, if you will please give me the date I will see if I can find it for you.”
He told her, and then sat in painful suspense while she turned those pages penned by a hand long since palsied in death, and which might contain so much of hope for him.
“Yes,” she said at last, “here is one entry—the first, I think, since it corresponds with the date you gave me;” and she passed him the book to let him read for himself.
His emotion was so great that at first the words seemed blurred and indistinct, and it was a minute or two before his vision became clear enough to read.