She told Pani the story of the morning.
The Indian woman shook her head. "She is not a true mother. She could not have left thee."
"But she thought she was dying. And if I had died there in the woods! Oh, Pani, I am so glad to live! It is such a joy that it quivers in me from head to foot. I am like my father."
She laughed for very gladness. Her mercurial temperament was born of the sun and wind, the dancing waters and singing birds.
"He will take thee away," moaned the woman like an autumnal blast.
"I will not go, then," defiantly.
"But fathers do as they like, little one."
"He will be good to me. I shall never leave you, never."
She knelt before Pani and clasped the bony hands, looked up earnestly into the faded eyes where the keen lights of only a few years ago were dulling, and she said again solemnly, "I will never leave you."
For she recalled the strange change of mood when she had repeated her full name to Miladi of the island. She was her father's true wife now, and though Jeanne could not comprehend the intricacies of the case, she could see that her father's real happiness lay in this second marriage. It took an effort not to blame her own mother for giving him up. That handsome woman glowing with life in every pulse, ready to dare any danger with him, proud of her motherhood, and, oh, most proud of her husband, making his home a temple of bliss, was his true mate. But though Jeanne could not have explained jealousy, she felt Miladi would not love her for being the Sieur Angelot's daughter. It would be better for her to remain here with Pani.