"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.