"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 bided until he had concluded his task and read through the script, making a change here and there. Then all at once some confused sense of realization of his new purpose came to her. She stood up and took a step forward and laid one apprehensive hand upon the paper as though to stay him. "Judge Priest," she said, "what have you written down here? And what do you mean to do with what you have written?" "Whut I have written here is a short statement--a memorandum, really, of whut you have been tellin' me, ma'am," he explained. "I'll have it written out more fully in the form of an affidavit, and then to-morrow I want you to sign it either here or at my office in the presence of witnesses." "But is it necessary?" she demurred. "I'm ignorant of the law, and you spoke just now of my failure to adopt Ellie by law. But if at this late date I must do it, can't it be done privately, in secret, so that neither Ellie nor anyone else will ever know?"