'And Fred Doonan's fond of someone else here,' said the lad.
'You, Willie? He's very fond of you,' she said.
'And he's fond of you, Sal. He said you are a real good sort, a regular white woman, even if you had dark blood in you. Oh, yes, he's fond of you, Sal.'
The half-caste's eyes gleamed with pleasurable pride, and her whole face changed. She was a comely woman, a very comely woman, with a heart and nature that would love fiercely, half savagely, if such a sentiment were roused within her.
'He said that about me?' she asked in a low voice. She could hardly believe it, so few, very few men had been kind to her, and none of her own sex. The black gins had hated her because of their ugliness and her good looks—they were not so very unlike their white sisters after all. Even in this almost deserted land there was love and hate, sorrow and joy, comedy and tragedy.
'Yes, he said that and more.'
'More! More, Willie?'
'He said you were like a mother to me, and you have been, Sal. I never had a real mother that I knew of; dad says she died when I was a baby.'
The woman stroked the child's hair and said,—
'I will always be your mother. I love you, and your father has been kinder to me than any man in the world.'