send her away with the child, what will become of him? Try to picture his life—the life of your own flesh and blood. He is no common Indian. He has the blood of your mother—your father—your uncle who gave you this place. If you supplied his mother with money, do you suppose her family would ever let her be? She would be their prey. Your son would be knocked about by some low halfbreed, probably. Think of him as a ragged, dirty, ignorant youth coming to pick berries some day at Grimstone, the home of his fathers. As for the girl—Fawnie, is it?—she is pretty, intelligent, a direct descendant of Tecumseh, I believe, and she cannot be repulsive to you or you would not have been eating your breakfast so happily with her as I came in." Mr. Ramsey's clean-shaven lips parted in a slightly derisive smile.
Derek flushed deeply. More than ever, he felt cut, bewildered. Now he could not bear the Vicar's keen eyes. He went to the door and looked out on the blinding surface of the lake. A wave of heat like the breath of a furnace beat in upon him. He glanced at the thermometer hanging in the shade on the verandah. The mercury touched 102 degrees. No wonder he felt bewildered. He put his hand to his head. Strange pains were tormenting the back of his neck. He could not think. And yet thoughts were gnawing at his brain like rats gnawing to get free of a trap. There seemed to be no air to breathe. A black schooner was passing, trailing a streamer of sooty black smoke. . . . He was roused by the sound of a shuffling step on the flags. It was old Mrs. Sharroe. She gave him an imperturbably hostile stare as she passed. He thought of gentle Fawnie at her mercy. Of his son, poor little beggar, at her mercy. He remembered the feel of those welts on Fawnie's shoulders and turned sick with repugnance. He wheeled back into the room and could scarcely make out Mr. Ramsey's
