“Yes, auntie, I know,” Jacky went on thoughtfully.  “Lablache means to put this marriage with me right through.  I see it all.  But say,” bringing one of her brown hands down forcibly upon that of her companion, which was concealed in the foot of the woolen sock, and gripping it with nervous strength, “I guess he’s reckoned without his bride.  I’m not going to marry Lablache, auntie, dear, and you can bet your bottom dollar I’m not going to let him ruin uncle.  All I want to do is to stop uncle drinking.  That is what scares me most.”

“My child, Lablache is the cause of that.  The same as he is the cause of all troubles in Foss River.  Your uncle realizes the consequences of the terrible losses he has incurred.  He knows, only too well, that he is utterly in the money-lender’s power.  He knows he must go on playing, vainly endeavoring to recover himself, and with each fresh loss he drinks deeper to smother his fears and conscience.  It is the result of the weakness of his nature—­a weakness which I have always known would sooner or later lead to his undoing.  Jacky, girl, I fear you will one day have to marry Lablache or your uncle’s ruin will be certainly accomplished.”

Mrs. Abbot’s face was very serious now.  She pitied from the bottom of her heart this motherless girl who had come to her, in spite of her courage and almost mannish independence, for that sympathy and advice which, at certain moments, the strongest woman cannot do without.  She knew that all she had said was right, and even if her story could do no material good it would at least have the effect of putting the girl on her guard.  In spite of her shrewdness Mrs. Abbot could never quite fathom her protegee.  And even now, as she gazed into the girl’s face, she was wondering how—­in what manner—­the narration of her own observations would influence the other’s future actions.  The thick blood of the half-breed slowly rose into Jacky’s face, until the dark skin was suffused with a heavy, passionate flush.  Slowly, too, the somber eyes lit—­glowed—­until the dazzling fire of anger shone in their depths.  Then she spoke; not passionately, but with a hard, cruel delivery which sent a shiver thrilling through her companion’s body and left her shuddering.

“‘Aunt’ Margaret, I swear by all that’s holy that I’ll never marry that scum.  Say, I’d rather follow a round-up camp and share a greaser’s blankets than wear all the diamonds Lablache could buy.  An’ as for uncle; say, the day that sees him ruined’ll see Lablache’s filthy brains spoiling God’s pure air.”

“Child, child,” replied the old lady, in alarm, “don’t take oaths, the rashness—­the folly of which you cannot comprehend.  For goodness’ sake don’t entertain such wicked thoughts.  Lablache is a villain, but—­”

She broke off and turned towards the door, which, at that moment, opened to admit the genial doctor.

“Ah,” she went on, with a sudden change of manner back to that of her usual cheerful self, “I thought you men were going to make a night of it.  Jacky came to share my solitude.”