“I—I—lost—a little girl. Her—this—one—do you know the last name?”
“I’ve most forgot—she’s had ours for so long.” Martha began to tremble. “Let’s see? Yes. Say, it can’t be, your name is Crowson? That’s hers, Lucianna Crowson.”
“My God!” the stout man sprang up. “It is! It is! Everything points to her being the same. It must be so.”
He seized Martha’s hands with such vehemence that she recoiled with a startled, backward step.
“Don’t act so crazy!” came her alarmed exclamation. “You let go an’ be careful. The blood’s clean to the top of your head. Set down an’ behave.”
“Yes! Yes!” cried Crowson, releasing her, to pace the small room with a broken laugh and a fierce curse. “Wait! I’ll be myself in a minute. She’s my girl—I tell you. They wrote me she was dead—the people I left her with—after the child was cured. I’m her father, my dear woman. Don’t mind me, I’ll pull up directly. Wait!”
Martha shrank against the wall, as he laughed wildly and growled imprecations.
Presently he steadied, tightening his muscles and breathing deep.
“I’m all right,” said he, huskily. “You must excuse this, Mrs.—Mrs.—”
“Matchett,” answered his caller. “Certainly! ’Tain’t no wonder you felt shook up, if you’re really Lucianna’s father.”