It was not surprising that Henry Burns had been interested by what he saw in the old room of the inn, and by what he at length came to hear. At first glance, there was Colonel Witham, fat and red-faced, strangely aroused, evidently labouring under some excitement, addressing himself vigorously to the old woman who sat close by. His heavy fist came down, now and then, with a thump on the arm of the chair in which he sat; and each time this happened poor old Granny Thornton jumped nervously as though she had been struck a blow. Her thin, peaked face was drawn and anxious; her eyes were fixed and staring; and she shook as though her feeble old frame would collapse. Henry Burns, surprised at this queer pantomine, gazed for a moment, unable to hear what was being said. Then, the voice of Colonel Witham, raised to a high pitch, could be clearly distinguished. What he said surprised Henry Burns still more. "I tell you I'll have her," cried Colonel Witham; "you've got to give her to me. What are you afraid of? I won't starve her. Where'll she go when you die, if you don't? Let her go to the poorhouse, will you?" And he added, heartlessly, "You can't live much longer; don't you know that?" Old Granny Thornton, half lifting herself from her chair, shook her head and made a reply to Colonel Witham, which Henry Burns could not hear. But what she said was perhaps indicated by Colonel Witham's reply. "Yes, I do like her," he said. "She's a flyaway and up to tricks, but I'll take that out of her. I'll bring her up better than you could. I need her to help take care of the place." Again the woman appeared to remonstrate. She pointed a bony finger at Colonel Witham and spoke excitedly. Colonel Witham's face flushed with anger. "I tell you you've got to give her to me," he cried. "I'll swear you put her in my charge. I'll take her. It's that, or I'll pack you both off to the poorhouse. I'll make out the papers for you to sign. You'll do it; you've got to." Old Granny Thornton sprang from her chair with a vigour excited by her agitation. She clutched an arm of the chair with one hand, while she raised the other impressively, like a witness swearing to an oath in court. And now, her voice keyed high with excitement, these words fell upon the ears of Henry Burns: "You'll never get her, Dan Witham. You can't have her. She's been here too long already. She's going back, now. I can't give her away, because--because she's not mine to give. She's not mine, I tell you. She's not mine!" Then, her strength exhausted by the utterance, she sank back once more into her seat. Colonel Witham, his face blank with amazement, sought now to rouse her once more. He arose and grasped her by an arm. He shook her. "Whose is she, then, if she's not yours?" he asked. "Whom does she belong to?"