angers. And yet both these women can
still find it in them to forgive her for all that she has done and all
that she may ever do. That's motherhood, I suppose."

"Yes, ma'am," he said slowly, "I reckin you're right--that's
motherhood." He tugged at his tab of white chin whisker, and his
puckered old eyes behind their glasses were shadowed with a deep
compassion. Then with a jerk he sat erect.

"I take it that you adopted the child legally?" he said, seeking to make
his tone casual.

"We took her just as I told you," she answered. "We always treated her
as though she had been ours. She never knew any difference."

"Yes, ma'am, quite so. You've made that clear enough. But by law, before
you left Maryland, you gave her your name, I suppose? You went through
the legal form of law of adoptin' her, didn't you?"

"No, sir, we didn't do that. It didn't seem necessary--it never occurred
to us to do it. Her mother was dead and her father was gone nobody knew
where. He had abandoned her, had shown he didn't care what might become
of her. And her mother on her deathbed had given her to me. Wasn't that
sufficient?"

Apparently he had not heard her question. Instead of answering it he put
one of his own:

"Do you reckin now, ma'am, by any chance that there are any people still
livin' back there in that town of Calais--old neighbors of yours, or
kinfolks maybe--who'd remember the circumstances in reguard to your
havin' took this baby in the manner which you have described?"

"Yes, sir; two at least that I know of are still living. One is my half
sister. I haven't seen her in twenty-odd years, but I hear from her
regularly. And another is a man who boarded with us at the time. He was
young then and very poor, but he has become well-to-do since. He lives
in Baltimore now; is prominent there in politics. Occasionally I see his
name in the paper. He has been to Congress and he ran for senator once.
And there may be still others if I could think of them."

"Never mind the others; the two you've named will be sufficient. Whut
did you say their names were, ma'am?"

She told him. He repeated them after her as though striving to fix them
in his memory.

"Ah-hah," he said. "Ma'am, have you got some writin' material handy? Any
blank paper will do--and a pen and ink?"

From a little stand in a corner she brought him what he required, and
wonderingly but in silence watched him as he put down perhaps a dozen
close-written lines. She