Judge Baxter rubbed his chin again.
“Don't you think you had better ask your questions?” he suggested.
“Yes; yes, I do. I will. How much money did my stepfather, Captain Marcellus Hall, have when he died?”
The Judge's chin-rubbing ceased. His eyebrows drew together.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked, after a moment.
“Because I do. Because it is very important that I should. It is my right to know. Was he a rich man?”
“Um—er—no. I should not call him that. Hardly a rich man.”
“Was he very poor?”
“Mary, I don't exactly see why—”
“I do. Oh, Judge Baxter, please don't think I am asking this for any selfish reasons. I am not, indeed I'm not! All my life, ever since I was old enough to think of such things at all, I have supposed—I have been led to believe that my stepfather left me plenty of money—money enough to pay my uncles for taking care of me, for my clothes and board, and now, during these last two years, for my studies in Boston. I never, never should have consented to go to that school if I hadn't supposed I was paying the expenses myself. I knew my uncles were not well-to-do; I knew they could not afford to—to do what they had already done for me, even before that. And now—last night—I was told that—that they were in great financial trouble, that they would probably be obliged to fail in business, and all because they had been spending their money on me, sacrificing themselves and their comfort and happiness in order that 'an adopted niece with extravagant ideas' might be educated above her station; that is the way the gentleman who told me the story put it. Of course he didn't know he was talking to the niece,” she added, with a pathetic little smile; “but, oh, Judge, can't you see now why I must know the truth—all of the truth?”