"Yes'm."
"Do any of the other children look like you?"
He took time for natural reflection—nothing more. "Yes'm."
"Then people would know that you and they were brothers and sister?"
"Sure."
"And they and you—Do you look like your father?"
"Sure."
"You've always called him 'father,' I suppose?"
"Sure I call my fadder 'fadder'."
His throat had dried. Did she know so much that he could not deceive her? She was questioning him obviously for a purposed end. He felt her slender fingers grasp his chin. He did not resist as she turned his face upward to hers, and he met miserably, but with pretended frankness her long tense scrutiny of his features. Her eyes, he saw, were indecisive and uncertain. She drew a deep, troubled breath.
"Did you ever," she asked, when he had
