"I don't know, ma'am."
"How long have you lived with this woman whom you have just left?"
"I don't know ezackly. I lived with Mis' Ryan first. She told me she missed my mother. She was right good to me, she was, but she had to go to a place, an' she bound me out to Mis' Hawkins, to look after the young uns and do chores. Mis' Hawkins is a hummer."
"A what?"
"She's a reg'lar out an' outer; jus' tur'ble; drinks an' fights. She's been tuck up lots of times, so you can't skeer her that a-way."
"Do you know anything about your mother? Where does Mrs. Ryan live?"
"She lives to a place in the country. She tol' me my mother was better'n mos'; that she was a lady in the millingnery line, an' made grand bonnets and hats."
"And your mother is not living?"
"No, ma'am. She got consumpted and died, Mis' Ryan said."
Mrs. Ramsey again sat thinking. "Miss Barnes," she said, after a pause, "you were perfectly right; it would not do for you to take the responsibility of this. We must establish our legal claim to this child. I do not imagine it will be difficult. You may leave Maggie with me. It is too late to do anything this evening, but to-morrow I will settle the question." And Maggie found herself the guest of—it seemed to her—the most elegant lady in the land.