To every other man save to the one she loved was Tess able to deny the motherhood that had been thrust upon her. To the student she stood condemned of a sin he could not forgive. But to Ezra, Ben, and Professor Young she had told the truth.

The weakness of the squatter as he sat on the floor, panting for breath, aroused Tessibel's sympathy, and she proffered him a cup of little Dan's milk.

"Drink it," she commanded, "and then scoot to yer mammy. And--and ye needn't say as how I air a-carin' for another woman's brat, will ye, Ezy?"

"Nope; I ain't a-sayin' nothin' ... I goes home to my mammy."

If Tess had never seen the hue of death upon a human face, she saw it now. The boy rose totteringly, and Tessibel, with a tender expression in her eyes, opened the door.

"Ezy, I's sorry for ye! I's sorry that I slicked the dirty dishrag in yer face. Ye forgives me, don't ye, Ezy?"

"Yep." And Ezra stumbled away.

Tess watched him stagger along the shore through the rain, the shadows of the weeping-willow trees at last swallowing him up.

She turned back into the hut, barred the door, and fed the child with sweetened milk, forcing particles of bread into the yawning throat. Teola had sent the student from her, never to return, yet she fed the child tenderly, tucking it, with its sugar rag, in the warm blanket.