I didn't wonder at his leaving her. I was only surprised that he did not “get intelligence” before she had three children. “I got 'nother chile,” said she, as if fearing these three did not do her justice, “a white chile.” I wasn't accustomed to Jamaican ways then and I was startled. The three before me could hardly have been blacker. “Him's fader white colonel,” said she proudly, and she mentioned a well-known name in the island, “him's fader very good to me. Have him before I get married.” I suppose I looked a little surprised. “Not do that in England?” asked Christy, seeking information, and I mendaciously assured her that every woman in that favoured land waited till she went to church and wore a ring before she had a child. I was introduced to the white son later on, a great hulking mulatto with rather a sullen air, and I noticed that the son born out of wedlock was treated with great respect by the sister and brothers who in England would be counted the more fortunate. They all called him “massa.” But he was good to his wild-looking mother, and brought her and her family many presents. I was not surprised that she was very proud of the colonel's son. Then came Rebekah, who took her place when we could stand Christy and her brood no longer. Rebekah had a child, and was openly proud of him. We always discussed him when she kneaded the bread, and I stood over her to see that she did it, because if I had not, she would have considered that kneading as done. “Missus looking lovely,” said Rebekah, “in her pink dress.” Missus' dress wasn't pink and she didn't look lovely, but I suppose Rebekah considered it a good way to open the morning. Perhaps if I felt she considered me lovely, I might ease up on the bread kneading. I never did, but she never failed to try. Then she told me about her “chile.” “Yes, missus, de fuss' chile I get he die.” “Ah, that was sad. And what was his name?” “Him name Lily. Den I pray to the Lard an' He give me anoder.” “And your husband--” I began. “Oh, missus, I get no husban'. He's fader, Amos Hussy, very good man he's fader, help me with de chile.” “A white man?” I asked, remembering Christy's colonel. “Oh, missus!”--she stopped kneading--“if he white I be rich woman. He a cultivator. Very good man.” But Frances the laundry woman was franker still. She brought with her her son “Hedgar,” aged eight, and she explained-- “Hedgar's fader very proud of him, tink most of Hedgar, more'n all his sons. He want me to leave him an' he keep him, but I say 'no.' Hedgar de on'y chile I get, mus' keep him, an' I get no work in dat country,” That far country was about twelve miles off. But the other sons were a little mystifying; however, she kindly explained, being a talkative soul. “He get four sons by four women, all about de same age, but he tink most of Hedgar.” I really felt a little delicacy about pursuing enquiries any further, but Frances felt none. It was commonplace to her.