"You think so?"
"I know it." He spoke with loud emphasis.
"You have no idea, now, who my father was, or is? Not now, after I have brought in all the evidence available; except—"
"Except what?" He asked quickly.
"Never mind that now. Tell me, have you any idea who he was, or is?"
"No, and nobody else thet I know of. She had high ideas, Happy had. I never believed she took up with any low cuss, not much! She was n't the kind to fall des'pritly in love with anybody like thet. Besides, had n't she had a man that was a man, even if he was only a boy in his years, to love the very ground she trod on? Happy was one of the uncommon kind of gals; she would n't take up with anyone thet come along. Now thet I know all this from you, I guess her love for thet man, whoever he was, or is, went 'bout as deep with her, as George's love for her went with him. Oh, Lord! It makes me sick to think of Happy Morey tryin' to throw herself inter the North River."
"Then,"—I spoke slowly, hesitatingly; I gathered all my strength to ask the crucial question—"you don't think that Mr. Ewart is my father?"
He stared at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. He swallowed hard twice. He leaned forward on the dining-room table, both fists pressed rigidly upon it.
"Do you think thet? Have you been thinkin' thet all this time, Marcia Farrell?"
"No. I not only do not think it, I do not believe it. I was told so."