It was not until the next day that Judge Kirtley went to see Mr. De Jarnette.

"I will give him an opportunity to sleep over it," he told his wife. "A man's sober second thought is always in the morning."

But Richard De Jarnette's sleep had not been long enough nor sound enough to change his mind.

"The stubbornness of the man is incredible," the Judge reported when he got home. "He's going to make us trouble—I can see that. He makes no accusation against Margaret. He doesn't try in the least to defame her character, but he says his brother undoubtedly had sufficient reasons for making such a will and that he shall carry out his wishes."

"I suppose the small matter of Margaret's having borne the child is no reason why he should consult her wishes," said Mrs. Kirtley, indignantly.

"Apparently not. He simply ignores her."

"What could he do with a baby? He can't take care of it! I can't see why he wants it."

"It isn't that he wants it. This is not affection. But for some reason he is determined that Margaret shall not have it."

"It is a dog-in-the-manger spirit!"

"No." the Judge said, thoughtfully, "it isn't that." From long habit his judicial mind was weighing evidence on both sides. "I am convinced that he has some reason for this, but so far I haven't been able to get at it. I asked him plainly if he had anything against Margaret. He said he had no accusations to make. And indeed I don't see that he could make any. If ever in a case like this a woman has been absolutely blameless, that woman is Margaret."

"What does he propose to do with the child?"

"I asked him that. He says he shall leave him in charge of the old woman who has taken care of him all his life, but he intends to take them to his home. He says she is perfectly competent and trustworthy—"

"Well, that is true," acknowledged Mrs. Kirtley. "I never saw a more faithful nurse."

"So he says. He claims that Margaret has herself told him repeatedly that the old woman knows better what to do with the child than she does."

"As if that proved anything! Every young mother has to learn. The man is a brute! Will he take Philip at once?"

"Oh, no! A will must always be admitted to probate before anybody can have any rights under it. And when it is we will be there to contest it."

"Have you talked with Margaret?"

"No. She is to come to the office this afternoon."

When he laid the case before her there Margaret listened in silence. Her excitement of the day before was gone. In fact Judge Kirtley would have been glad to see her more moved than she was. Her calmness seemed almost like despair.

"I knew he would not do it," she said. "He means us harm."

"Well, just for the present, my dear, I seem to have been unsuccessful, but I have by no means given up hope of its being compromised."

"What reason does he give for persisting in taking Philip from me?"

"None at all. He simply falls back on the will and says he wants to carry out his brother's wishes."

"There is some reason," she said positively. "He hates me. For what cause I cannot tell. I have felt it since the day Victor died. He has avoided me ever since. I am afraid of him. And yet I feel powerless before a fear that cannot even be defined. Why should he hate me?"

"I think that is imagination. Are you willing to talk with him?"

"Why, certainly."

"Very well then, I shall arrange for you to see him to-morrow—in his private office."

Then they fell to talking about the will and Margaret said, hesitatingly, "Judge Kirtley, are you sure it wouldn't make any difference—Philip's not being born when the will was made, I mean. It seems as if it must make a difference."

He went to the library and took down the Statute Book, turning to Chapter XXVII, Section one, and read:

"Sec. 1. ... That when any person hath or shall have any child or children under the age of one and twenty years, and not married at the time of his death, that it shall and may be lawful to and for the father of such child or children, whether born at the time of the decease of the father, or at that time in ventre sa mere; or whether such father be within the age of one and twenty years, or of full age, by his deed executed in his lifetime, or by his last will and testament in writing, in the presence of two or more credible witnesses, in such manner, and from time to time as he shall respectively think fit, to dispose of the custody and tuition of such child or children, for, and during such time as he and they shall respectively remain under the age of one and twenty years, or any lesser time, to any person or persons in possession or remainder, other than Popish recusants:—"

She listened carefully. As he closed the book she said scathingly, "I don't wonder they put it in a foreign tongue. That would sound very harsh in English."

Then after a moment she asked, "Judge Kirtley, how does it happen that such an infamous law was ever put upon our Statute Books?"

"That is a long story, Margaret, or rather there are links in the chain that go back a long way. It doesn't take much time in the telling." He was glad to turn her thoughts into a slightly different channel.

"You see, when Maryland ceded the District of Columbia to the United States for a permanent seat of government, it was provided by an act of Congress that all the laws of the State of Maryland, as they then existed, should be and continued in force in the District, or at least such part of it as had been ceded by that State."

"Did Maryland have such a law?" asked Margaret, incredulously.

"Yes, Maryland and a good many of the other states—the older ones particularly. They have been gradually modifying these laws in a number of them, but—"

"How did they ever happen to have such a law in the first place?" she interrupted. "I did not dream that such things would be tolerated in this age."

"The explanation is simple enough. When the English emigrants came to this country and founded commonwealths they brought with them ready-made the language, the laws, and the institutions of the mother country. These had only to be modified and adapted to changed conditions that they found here."

"Then this is really an English law?"

"An English law dating back to the time of Charles II. It was originally framed to prevent the Catholics from obtaining possession of the children of a Protestant father, I believe."

"It sounds as if it might have gone back to the Dark Ages," said Margaret, indignantly, "or to barbarism! It seems so strange that I have never heard of it before."

"Not at all. Most people do not know about laws until they are touched by them."

"You say some of the states have repealed this law. Why did they do it?"

"Oh, they found it contrary to the spirit of the age, I suppose. I guess the women's rights people prodded them up a little, maybe."

"Judge Kirtley," said Margaret, after a pause in which her mind had gone from women's rights to women's wrongs, "do you suppose many women are forced to give up their children under this law?"

"Not many of your kind, Margaret. Perhaps not many of any kind. But it is a thing well known that many brutal men know of this law and hold it as a club over their wives. A lazy, good-for-nothing negro, for instance, will often make his wife support him, here in the District where there are so many of them, by using this threat."

"Oh, it is cruel! cruel!" she cried, her voice trembling with indignation.

"Margaret, I think, judging from your face just now, that if you were a man you would say of this law, as Lincoln did of slavery, 'If I ever get a chance at that institution I'll hit it hard!'"

"I would! I would! If I were a man. But what can a woman do but suffer!"

"Some of them learn to fight," he said, "enough at least to defend their young."

It was in her mind to ask him further questions, but he forestalled them.

"You'd better go home now, child, and think no more about it for a while. I will see Mr. De Jarnette and arrange to go with you to his office to-morrow."

This meeting never took place. Judge Kirtley went to Margaret's home just before night to tell her that Mr. De Jarnette had declined to talk it over with her. It could be settled much more satisfactorily with her attorney, he had said.

"I never expected him to do it," Margaret said, shaking as with a chill. "Judge Kirtley, what does it mean? Why does he shun me so?"

"My own idea, Margaret, is that he is afraid to risk talking it over with you for fear of having his resolution broken down by your tears."

"I should never go to him with tears!" said Margaret, with flashing eyes.

"I think perhaps it is just as well for you not to go," remarked Judge Kirtley, prudently. "I believe time will bring it right anyway. And don't let your fears run away with you, Margaret. He wouldn't think of doing anything except according to law—and the law is always deliberate. After the will is filed, with petition for probate, several weeks will have to elapse before it can be settled, even if it is settled satisfactorily to all concerned. If we find there is going to be trouble this will give us time to decide upon our line of procedure. We may have to contest the will."

"On the ground that it is unjust?"

"No. A will can be contested in the probate court only on the ground that the testator was of unsound mind and hence incapable of making a will, or that he was unduly influenced. By the way, have you ever seen anything in your husband that would lead you to think that he might be of unsound mind?"

"No," said Margaret, after a moment's thought, "not a thing. He was very passionate, but otherwise perfectly sane."

"Hm-m. And have you any reason to think that Mr. Richard De Jarnette would have tried to influence him in the making of this will?"

"No. I am sure he would never have done it. It would not have been in the least like him."

"Well, Margaret," said the Judge, dryly, "I think I will not call you as a witness in this case just yet ... It seems to me that the unsound mind theory might be successful, in spite of what you say. These fits of passion that you speak of—anger is a short-lived madness, you know—the fact that his mother did some unexplained things; and then his unaccountable desertion of you—well, we will see."

"It seems to me," said Margaret, rather timidly, "that the plea that the will is unjust is so much more forcible than any other. Anybody can see that without argument. It is self-evident."

"Very true, but the law recognizes only these two reasons for setting aside a will. Unfortunately the laws of this District permit a man to make just such a will. It remains for us only to prove that he was mentally incapable of making one at all, or, as I said, that he was unduly influenced."

Margaret shook her head and sighed. She did not believe that either could be established.

"Now don't let your fears run away with you, Margaret. Be sensible. Mr. De Jarnette wouldn't harm Philip. It is absurd to think of it."

"Oh, I am afraid! There is no telling what he would do if he ever got hold of him. He must have some object in wanting him. And you know it is no good object."

It was useless to reason with her. Her fears had placed her beyond reason. He went away, promising to see Mr. De Jarnette again.

When he was gone, Margaret went to her room and sat down. Her strength seemed suddenly gone. She could not stand. Her head was dry and burning and her hands like ice. A thousand fears assailed her. A girl of twenty-one, shielded from contact with the world or a knowledge of its wickedness was poorly fitted to cope with such fears. They were unreasonable, of course, but Margaret did not know it.

If she could only get away where he could never find them! or at any rate until Philip was no longer a baby. She might have courage to face it when he was a few years older—but a baby was so helpless! And she looked despairingly at the little form lying there in the unconscious grace of sleep, the soft breath parting rosy lips, and the moist locks clustering in rings on the fair forehead.

"Oh, Mammy Cely," she cried in desperation, "why does he want my baby?"

The black woman shook her head. There had been no secrecy with her about the will. Her relations with the mother and child had been too close for Margaret to have any hesitation about telling her, and her own need of comfort too urgent for her to have been prudent had she had. She must talk to somebody. So Mammy Cely knew the whole story, and was wrung between sympathy for Margaret and loyalty to "Marse Richard."

"The Lord knows, Miss Margaret!" she said, shaking her head. "It beats me!"

She turned away and began arranging the shades for the night, muttering below her breath as she did so, "Hit's the wolf blood! That's what it is!"

"What did you say, Mammy Cely?"

The old woman made no reply.

"Mammy Cely! what did you say?"

"Miss Margaret,—I don't want to tell you nothin' about it—maybe it ain't so anyway."

"Maybe what isn't so?" Margaret's curiosity was now thoroughly aroused.

"Why,—'bout the Jarnettes' havin' wolf hearts. That's what they used to say. I don't know 'm. But I reckon it's so. I thought sho' Marse Richard was gwineter 'scape it. He ain' never showed that strain befo'. But look lak it's a curse. They can't git shet of it. Hit's there. Fire can't burn it and water can't squinch it! Honey ... it was Marse Richard's daddy wha' sold my little Cass away from me."

"Your baby?" cried Margaret in horror. "Sold your baby?"

"Well, she wa'n't jes as you might say a baby," said Mammy Cely, with scrupulous exactness, "but she was the onlies' one I had, and when a mother loses a child—specially her onlies' one—no matter how old it is, it's her baby. 'Pears lak she always goes back to that.—Yaas, 'm, he sold her—down South. It's more than thirty years sence then. And I ain't never seen her sence."

"Oh, Mammy Cely! How could you bear it?"

Mammy Cely looked at her with dry eyes.

"A body can bear a heap of things, honey, they think they can't when they are yo' age. I bore it because there wa'n't anything else to do. That's why people bear most of their troubles."

"Mammy Cely, tell me about it," cried Margaret impulsively. "Sit down and tell me."

The old woman took the chair on the other side of the crib. It seemed to her that it might not be a bad thing for Margaret to get her mind upon another trouble that was greater than her own. Perhaps that was it—and perhaps she wanted to tell the story.