She shuddered.
'Sal, you have been a mother to my lad.'
She remained silent.
'Do you know what that scoundrel Dalton says?'
'No.'
'That Willie is your child.'
A wail came from her, a piteous, heart-rending wail. She fell on her knees at his feet. She put her head on his boots, and she cried—cried many bitter tears. It was hard for her. She loved this white man, the man who had helped her, had come into her life, picked her up when she was dying, starving, her tongue cleaving to her mouth from thirst, on his verandah steps. He was not a missionary, he never talked to her about God—and the devil. He never frightened her with unknown terrors, he had been good and kind and gentle to her, and they said these things about him!
She thought not of herself, her whole thoughts were for him, the man who had protected her.
'Willie, Willie!' she wailed.
She wished he belonged to her, that he were flesh of her flesh. She craved for that child as mothers crave for their own.