“He’s mine!” She was stamping her foot in passion, her thin face crimson, the veins standing out on her forehead. “He’s mine--you may try ter get him, but you won’t--you won’t--you won’t!” she screamed. The child was frightened now, and clasped both arms around her neck, screaming too. “I was only offering to carry him to the candy man’s, Jean,” Trench said; “don’t get so excited. I know the child is yours.” “He’s mine!” she cried again, “mine! That’s my shame, they call it, and preach at me, and try ter take him away. They want ’er steal him, but they shan’t; they shan’t touch him any more’n you shall! He’s mine; God gave him ter me, and I’ll keep him. You can kill me, but you shan’t have him noways!” She was quivering from head to foot, her wild eyes flashing, her face white now with the frenzy that swept away every other thought. “Hush,” said Trench sternly, “no one wants to steal the child, Jean; it’s only your fancy. Be quiet.” He spoke with such force that the girl fell back, leaning against the fence, holding the sobbing child tight, her eyes devouring the man’s strong, clean-featured face. Her clouded mind was searching for memories. She had lost her wits when Sammy was born without a father to claim him. Trench still stood in the middle of the road, and his figure was at once striking and homely. He was above the average height, big-boned and lean, the fineness of his head and the power of his face not less notable because of a certain awkwardness that, at first, disguised the real power of the man, a power so vital that it grew upon you until his personality seemed to stand out in high relief against the commonplace level of humanity. He had the force and vitality of a primitive man. The girl crouched against the fence, and the two looked at each other. Suddenly she put the child down and, coming cautiously nearer, pointed with one hand, the other clenched against her flat chest. “I know you,” she whispered, in a strange penetrating voice, “I know you at last--_you’re him_.” Trench regarded her a moment in speechless amazement, then the full significance of her words was borne in upon him by the wild rage in her eyes. He knew she was half crazed and saw his peril if this belief became fixed in her mind. Often as he had seen her she had never suggested such a delusion as was then taking root in her demented brain. “You are mistaken,” he said gently, slowly, persuasively, trying to impress her, as he might a child; “you have forgotten; I only came to Eshcol four years ago. You have not known me two years, Jean; you are thinking of some one else.” A look of cunning succeeded the fury in her eyes, as she peered at him. “It’s like you ter say it,” she cried triumphantly at last, “it’s like you ter hide. You’re afeard, you were always afeard--coward, coward!” Trench laid his powerful hand on her shoulder and almost shook her. “Be still,” he said authoritatively, “it is false. You know it’s false. I am not he.”