“Papa went to wake Dixon, and he brought his fleam—­I suppose to try and bleed him.  I have said enough, have I not?  I seem so confused.  But I will answer any question to make it appear that Dixon is innocent.”

The judge had been noting all down.  He sat still now without replying to her.  Then he wrote rapidly, referring to his previous paper, from time to time.  In five minutes or so he read the facts which Ellinor had stated, as he now arranged them, in a legal and connected form.  He just asked her one or two trivial questions as he did so.  Then he read it over to her, and asked her to sign it.  She took up the pen, and held it, hesitating.

“This will never be made public?” said she.

“No; I shall take care that no one but the Home Secretary sees it.”

“Thank you.  I could not help it, now it has come to this.”

“There are not many men like Dixon,” said the judge, almost to himself, as he sealed the paper in an envelope.

“No,” said Ellinor; “I never knew any one so faithful.”

And just at the same moment the reflection on a less faithful person that these words might seem to imply struck both of them, and each instinctively glanced at the other.

“Ellinor!” said the judge, after a moment’s pause, “we are friends, I hope?”

“Yes; friends,” said she, quietly and sadly.

He felt a little chagrined at her answer.  Why, he could hardly tell.  To cover any sign of his feeling he went on talking.

“Where are you living now?”

“At East Chester.”

“But you come sometimes to town, don’t you?  Let us know always—­whenever you come; and Lady Corbet shall call on you.  Indeed, I wish you’d let me bring her to see you to-day.”

“Thank you.  I am going straight back to Hellingford; at least, as soon as you can get me the pardon for Dixon.”

He half smiled at her ignorance.

“The pardon must be sent to the sheriff, who holds the warrant for his execution.  But, of course, you may have every assurance that it shall be sent as soon as possible.  It is just the same as if he had it now.”

“Thank you very much,” said Ellinor rising.

“Pray don’t go without breakfast.  If you would rather not see Lady Corbet just now, it shall be sent in to you in this room, unless you have already breakfasted.”

“No, thank you; I would rather not.  You are very kind, and I am very glad to have seen you once again.  There is just one thing more,” said she, colouring a little and hesitating.  “This note to you was found under papa’s pillow after his death; some of it refers to past things; but I should be glad if you could think as kindly as you can of poor papa—­and so—­if you will read it—­”

He took it and read it, not without emotion.  Then he laid it down on his table, and said—­

“Poor man! he must have suffered a great deal for that night’s work.  And you, Ellinor, you have suffered, too.”