And Jenny was nearly as happy as she could be. Her child was a gift from heaven, even if heaven frowned as it gave her the beautiful boy. She never saw the Bible or the horrid pictures and she saw instead the scripture of the child's pure flesh hourly and read the dark language of her man's heart. He adored what she had given him, and she knew, as a woman may know, that underneath his awkward roughness and his careless ways, sometimes not wholly gentle, there was real love for her and the wish to be good. And when he sat with her and smoked, she caught the paternal look of full satisfaction that he feigned to hide from himself. What a boy it was! He was as fat as a prairie chicken, and as full of life as a fresh-run salmon. How pink he showed in hot water: how he squealed like a dear little pig and kicked his crumpled dimpled legs! Was there ever such a boy before? "Oh, Tchorch, see," said Jenny. She showed him the baby's thick dark hair. The child was a garden of delight that she cultivated all day long. But she never forgot "Tchorch," who had been so good to her, and had taken her to Victoria and driven her about in a fine carriage: who had showed her the world. If she had only been his wife the whole earth could have offered her nothing. And yet behind her was the dark shadow of Pete. George never spoke of him, and if he had known that Sam did he would have kicked the Chinaman from the house to the Mill. Yet it wasn't Sam's fault, though he was a chatterbox and always ready for "talkee" at any time. Jenny asked him about things. She knew that men said it was Pete who had spiked the logs. Sam told her of the death of his poor countryman. She wept bitterly about Skookum, who had always been a kind, thick-headed chap, very good to his klootchman. She had now taken up with another who wasn't good to her. "Poor old Skookum," said Jenny. Oh, it was dreadful of Pete. And yet it was her fault. But she had her boy! Oh, not for anything, not for life or heaven or all the round world contained of good, would she have parted with her child and George's. She hadn't lived before. And now "Tchorch" loved her so much more. He was so satisfied, so content to sit and smoke. Her Indian blood was happy to see her man sit solemnly and puff the clouds into the air without a word. Now she knew of the search for Pete, and knew what he had done, just as she knew what wicked Ned had done to poor Mary. She hated Ned, and was sure he was utterly bad. Nevertheless, Mary had gone back to him. That she knew was natural. "Poor Mary loves him," she said, "but she has no baby!" If the sky was clear, it was for her little boy: when the breezes blew they were for him: the beauty of the river was his: the loveliness of stars and the goodness of her milk were the gifts of God, who was not angry with her but only sorrowful because she was not married. "He would marry me if----"