"Do you ever go to see her?"
"No, sir; she won't let me come into the house."
"Why not?"
"I cannot tell. She was going to send me to the poorhouse, when Mr. Maxwell took me in. I have often and often wanted to see the room where we lived in, and where mother died, but she wouldn't let me go up. One day I begged and cried for her to let me go up—I wanted to, so bad; but she called me a dirty little brat, and told me to go about my business, or she would get Mr. Maxwell to give me a beating. I never have tried to go there since."
"What is the woman's name?"
"Her name is Mrs. Claxon."
"And she lives three or four doors from Mr. Maxwell's?"
"Yes, sir."
"I am going home with you in a little while, and will get you to show me the house. Your mother had some furniture in her room?"
"Yes, sir. We had a bureau, and a bedstead, and a good many things."