He laid his hand upon hers. When she ceased, he
answered, promptly:
"Miss Hallam, from this moment I believe in you with all my heart.
I believe in the wisdom and purity of all you have done. Whatever you
may do in the future I shall trust in you. Late as it is, take my
sincere, my warm sympathy. If you choose to make me the sharer of your
cares and sorrows, you will find me a true friend; if you think it
right and best still to preserve silence, I am equally satisfied of
your integrity."
Then he put her arm within his, and talked to her so wisely and gently
that Elizabeth found herself weeping soft, gracious, healing tears.
She brought him once more into the squire's familiar sitting-room.
She spread for him every delicacy she knew he liked. She took him all
over the house and grounds, and made him see that every thing was kept
in its old order. He asked no questions, and she volunteered no
information. But he did not expect it at that time. It would not have
been like Elizabeth Hallam to spill over either her joys or her sorrows
at the first offer of sympathy. Her nature was too self-contained for
such effusiveness. But none the less the rector felt that the cloud
had vanished. And he wondered that he had ever thought her capable
of folly or wrong--that he had ever doubted her.
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