's not Dan Witham I care for, whether he's dead or not, but Little
Bess."

Henry Burns stepped in front of the old woman, and looked into her eyes.

"What do you care whether Bess is lost or not?" he asked. "She don't
belong to you. She's not yours. You're not her grandmother."

At the words, so quick and unexpected, Granny Thornton shrank back as
though she had received a blow. Her eyes rolled in her head, and she
seemed to be trying to reply; but the words would not come. She gasped
and choked, and clutched at her throat with her shrunken hands.

Henry Burns spoke again, grasping one of her hands, and compelling her
to listen.

"Somebody else wants her home more than you do," he said. "Why don't you
give her back? She's too smart and bright to go to the poorhouse, when
you die. Why do you keep her here?"

He spoke at random, knowing not whether he was near the secret or not,
but determined that he would make her speak out.

But she sank down in her chair, huddled into an almost shapeless,
half-lifeless heap. Her head was buried in her hands. She rocked feebly
to and fro. Once she roused herself a bit, and strove to ask a question,
but seemed to be overcome with weakness. Henry Burns thought he divined
what she would ask, and answered.

"I know it's so," he said. "You can't hide it any longer. I've found it
out."

It seemed as though she would not speak again. The minutes went by,
ticked off in clamorous sound, by a big clock on the wall. Granny
Thornton still crouched all in a heap in her chair, moaning to herself.
Henry Burns remained silent and waited.

Then when, all at once, the old woman brought herself upright, with a
jerk, and spoke to him, the sound of her voice amazed him. It was not
unlike the tone in which she had answered Colonel Witham, the night
Henry Burns overheard her. It was shrill and sharp, though with a
whining intonation. What she said was most unexpected.

"Have you been to school?" she queried.

Henry Burns stared hard. He thought her mind wandering. But she
continued.

"Don't stare that way--haven't you any wit? Can you write? Hurry--I'm
afeared Dan will be here."

Henry Burns understood, in a flash. He sprang to the desk, got the pen
and ink there and a block of coarse paper, the top sheet of which had
some figuring on it. He returned to the old woman's side and sat down,
with the paper on his knees. She stared at him blankly for a few
moments--then said abruptly:

"Write