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 it down just as I tell you. I'm going to die soon--Don't stare like that--write it down. Dan Witham can't harm me then, and I'm going to tell. Her name isn't Bess Thornton--it's Bess Ellison." Henry Burns's hand almost refused to write. But he controlled himself, and followed her. "Dan shan't have her," she continued. "I'll give her up, first. Twelve years ago last June she was born. And she weren't as pretty as my girl's baby, that was born the same day--though they looked alike, too.