"Yes," she said. "And I hope that I shall be forgiven all the falsehoods I have been forced to tell."
"They were for her, Florence, and there is a virtue in an untruth that shields a heart." He moved closer to her and added: "I wonder at your strength and marvel at my weakness."
"You were groping in the dark. It was not your fault, but your nature."
"And you are my daughter again."
"Yes," said Florence, "in love and in duty."
Mrs. Elbridge went out. The Judge and Florence sat down to wait for William. He was a sort of way-station which must be reached before they could arrive at Howard. The Judge told her of the darkness through which he had passed, throwing new light upon it, as if she had not seen it, as she stood by, holding a torch. He spoke of Goyle, of his strange power; he told her of the newspaper cutting that gave account of his mind-reading, and finally he told her of Bodney's confession. She was prepared, and showed no agitation. But there was grief on her face. Then he told her that he could not find it in his heart to condemn him. "In your own words, Florence, it was not his fault, but his nature. I will take him back, and not even Howard must know of his part in—in my darkness."
"Howard ought to know everything," she said. "But not now, my dear; by degrees, as he shall be able to bear it. He is generous, and I believe he will forgive."
Mrs. Elbridge returned and stood in the door. "Here comes William," she said. The Judge arose. William came in puffing. "We were looking for you," said Mrs. Elbridge.
"Well, now," replied the old fellow, "you don't have to look long for me, I'll tell you that. I made the driver whip his horses all the way there and back."
"And are you sure that your message caught the train?" said the Judge.