CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LIGHT BREAKS.
The Judge turned and saw Bradley in the door. His appearance at any moment was not in the nature of a surprise. Agnes said that she expected him at most unexpected times. He no doubt regarded himself as a brave man, and perhaps he was; it required courage to be so timidly persistent.
"I hope I don't intrude," said the preacher.
"Oh, not at all. Come in."
"Miss Agnes is out for a walk, I understand," said Bradley, sitting down.
The Judge stood looking at him absent-mindedly. "Ah, yes, I suppose so. But I don't know why I suppose so. The truth is, I don't know anything about it. I beg your pardon, Bradley. I am—am greatly disturbed. The fact is, I hardly know what I am about. I am a mystery unto myself. I was just thinking of it as you came in. It does not seem possible for a man, with a mountain of sorrow upon his heart, to turn squarely about and speculate upon trivial things—to jest, if I may say so, and I must for it is a fact. I am glad you came."
"I am always delighted to come, Judge. Here I find the shade of a palm tree in a great desert of trade. And I came in the hope of finding you better."
"Better!" The Judge looked at him almost sternly. "Better, why I am not sick. What put that into your head, Bradley?"
"Why, I understood from what you have said that your health was not of the best."