Nance nodded.
“Then—who’s his—father?”
“Who d’you suppose, Mammy?” asked the girl miserably, “I’m afraid it’s Brand—the man who says he loves me!”
The gaunt old mother came round the table and put an unaccustomed arm about her daughter’s shoulders. Caresses were rare with her.
“No,” she said decidedly, “Brand Fair ain’t a deceiver. I’d stake a lot on that. I feel to trust him, honey. Whatever is wrong in this terrible tangle, it ain’t Brand—an’ you can take your old Mammy’s word on that.”
The girl straightened her shoulders, lifted her head.
“I do trust him, Mammy,” she said gallantly, “whatever has happened in the past I know it has not made him a liar—and I feel to be ashamed of myself.”
“Needn’t,” said Mrs. Allison succinctly, “it’s natural—th’ age-old instinct of jealousy. Come down from our naked ancestors when th’ man was th’ food-getter an’ th’ woman fought with tooth an’ nail if another female hove in sight. You’d like to go right out now an’ scratch that woman’s eyes out, wouldn’t you?”
A sickly smile trembled on Nance’s lips.
“I guess I would,” she said unsteadily, “because—you see—if—if she’s his wife—why—he can’t take another.”