going over a list of those very "swears" she objected to, but
they were mentally directed at the whole outfit of his ruffianly
construction gang. He was silently swearing at them for their own
shortcomings in that very thing.

The child on the couch stirred again. This time the firelight fell
full across the little arm. Wingate stared at it, then his eyes
widened. He looked at the woman, then back at the bare arm. It was
the arm of a _white_ child.

"Catharine, was your husband _white_?" he asked, in a voice that
betrayed anxiety.

"I got no husban'," she replied, somewhat defiantly.

"Then--" he began, but his voice faltered.

She came and stood between him and the couch.

Something of the look of a she-panther came into her face, her
figure, her attitude. Her eyes lost their mournfulness and blazed a
black-red at him. Her whole body seemed ready to spring.

"You not touch the girl child!" she half snarled. "I not let you
touch her; she _mine_, though I have no husban'!"

"I don't want to touch her, Catharine," he said gently, trying to
pacify her. "Believe me, I don't want to touch her."

The woman's whole being changed. A thousand mother-lights gleamed