The young man said nothing more at the time, but ten minutes later, when he was thoughtfully smoking a long brown pipe, and 'Tilda Jane sat in a chair beside him, rocking her dog, he called out to Mrs. Minley, who was hovering about the room. "Sit down, Mrs. Minley. P'raps you can get this little girl to talk; I can't."
'Tilda Jane turned sharply to him. "Oh, mister, I'd do anything for you. I'll talk."
"Well, reel it off then. I've got to start soon."
"What d'ye want to know?" she said, doggedly.
"Everything; tell me where you started from. Was you born in the asylum?"
"Nobody don't know where I was born. Nobody don't know who I am, 'cept that a woman come to the poorhouse with me to Middle Marsden when I was a baby. She died, an' I was left. They give me the name of 'Tilda Jane Harper, an' put me in the 'sylum. Children come an' went. Just as soon as I'd get to like 'em they'd be 'dopted; I never was 'dopted, 'cause I'm so ugly. My eyes ought to 'a' been blue, an' my hair curly. I might 'a' been a servant, but my habits was in the way."
"Habits—what habits?" asked Hank.
"Habits of impidence an' pig-headedness. When the men come to kill the pigs I'd shut myself in my room, an' put my fingers in my ears, an' I couldn't hear, but I'd always squeal when the pigs squealed."
"Is that why you wouldn't eat your ham just now?"
"Oh, that ain't ham to me," she said, eloquently. "That bit o' red meat was a cunnin', teeny white pig runnin' round a pen, cryin' 'cause the butcher's after him. I couldn't eat it, any more'n I'd eat my brother."