Mr. Dinneford went to him with Freeling’s affidavit and the pardon, and placing them in his hands, watched him closely to see the effect they would produce.  He found him greatly changed in appearance, looking older by many years.  His manner was quiet, as that of one who had learned submission after long suffering.  But his eyes were clear and steady, and without sign of mental aberration.  He read Freeling’s affidavit first, folded it in an absent kind of way, as if he were dreaming, reopened and read it through again.  Then Mr. Dinneford saw a strong shiver pass over him; he became pale and slightly convulsed.  His face sunk in his hands, and he sat for a while struggling with emotions that he found it almost impossible to hold back.

When he looked up, the wild struggle was over.

“It is too late,” he said.

“No, George, it is never too late,” replied Mr. Dinneford.  “You have suffered a cruel wrong, but in the future there are for you, I doubt not, many compensations.”

He shook his head in a dreary way, murmuring,

“I have lost too much.”

“Nothing that may not be restored.  And in all you have not lost a good conscience.”

“No, thank God!” answered the young man, with a sudden flush in his face.  “But for that anchor to my soul, I should have long ago drifted out to sea a helpless wreck.  No thank God!  I have not lost a good conscience.”

“You have not yet read the other paper,” said Mr. Dinneford.  “It is your pardon.”

“Pardon!” An indignant flash came into Granger’s eyes.  “Oh, sir, that hurts too deeply.  Pardon!  I am not a criminal.”

“Falsely so regarded in the eyes of the law, but now proved to be innocent, and so expressed by the governor.  It is not a pardon in any sense of remission, but a declaration of innocence and sorrow for the undeserved wrongs you have suffered.”

“It is well,” he answered, gloomily—­“the best that can be done; and I should be thankful.”

“You cannot be more deeply thankful than I am, George.”  Mr. Dinneford spoke with much feeling.  “Let us bury this dreadful past out of our sight, and trust in God for a better future.  You are free again, and your innocence shall, so far as I have power to do it, be made as clear as noonday.  You are at liberty to depart from here at once.  Will you go with me now?”

Granger lifted a half-surprised look to Mr. Dinneford’s face.

“Thank you,” he replied, after a few moments’ thought.  “I shall never forget your kindness, but I prefer remaining here for a few days, until I can confer with my friends and make some decision as to the future.”

Granger’s manner grew reserved, almost embarrassed.  Mr. Dinneford was not wrong in his impression of the cause.  How could he help thinking of Edith, who, turning against him with the rest, had accepted the theory of guilt and pronounced her sentence upon him, hardest of all to bear?  So it appeared to him, for he had nothing but the hard fact before him that she had applied for and obtained a divorce.