“Daniel,” declared Mrs. Baxter, “it’s the queerest thing I ever heard of.  You say they don’t know—­either of them—­and the child herself doesn’t know, either.”

“That’s it, Ophelia.  No one knows except myself.  Captain Hall read the letter to me and put it in my charge a year ago.”

“Well, I must say!”

“Yes, I know, I said it at the time, and I’ve been saying it to myself ever since.  It doesn’t mean anything; that is, it is not binding legally, of course.  It’s absolutely unbusinesslike and unpractical.  Simply a letter, asking them, as old friends, to do this thing.  Whether they will or not the Almighty only knows.”

“Well, Daniel, I must say I shouldn’t have thought you, as his lawyer, would have let him do such a thing.  Of course, I don’t know either of them very well, but, from what little I’ve heard, I should say they know as much about what they would be supposed to do as—­as you do about tying a necktie.  For mercy sakes let me fix it!  The knot is supposed to be under your chin, not under your ear as if you were going to be hung.”

The Judge meekly elevated the chin and his wife pulled the tie into place.

“And so,” she said, “they can say yes or no just as they like.”

“Yes, it rests entirely with them.”

“And suppose they say no, what will become of the child then?”

“I can’t tell you.  Captain Hall seemed pretty certain they wouldn’t say no.”

“Humph!  There!  Now you look a little more presentable.  Have you got a clean handkerchief?  Well, that’s an unexpected miracle; I don’t know how you happened to think of it.  When are you going to speak with them about it?”

“Today, if they come to the funeral, as I suppose they will.”

“I shall be in a fidget until I know whether they say yes or no.  And whichever they say I shall keep on fidgeting until I see what happens after that.  Poor little Mary-’Gusta!  I wonder what will become of her.”

The Judge shook his head.

Over the road between South Harniss and Ostable a buggy drawn by an aged white horse was moving slowly.  On the buggy’s seat were two men, Captain Shadrach Gould and Zoeth Hamilton.  Captain Gould, big, stout, and bearded, was driving.  Mr. Hamilton, small, thin, smooth-faced and white-haired, was beside him.  Both were obviously dressed in their Sunday clothes, Captain Shadrach’s blue, Mr. Hamilton’s black.  Each wore an uncomfortably high collar and the shoes of each had been laboriously polished.  Their faces, utterly unlike in most respects, were very solemn.

“Ah hum!” sighed Mr. Hamilton.

Captain Shadrach snorted impatiently.

“For the land sakes don’t do that again, Zoeth,” he protested.  “That’s the tenth ‘Ah hum’ you’ve cast loose in a mile.  I know we’re bound to a funeral but there ain’t no need of tollin’ the bell all the way.  I don’t like it and I don’t think Marcellus would neither, if he could hear you.”