"An' I've none the best iv ye, Vincent. 'Tis a wicked lad ye are,
with a takin' way with the ladies--as plain as the nose on yer face.
Manny's the idle kiss ye've given, an' manny's the heart ye've broke.
But, Vincent, bye, did ye iver know the rale thing?"
"How do you mean?"
"The rale thing, the rale thing--that is--well, have ye been iver a
father?"
St. Vincent shook his head.
"And niver have I. But have ye felt the love iv a father, thin?"
"I hardly know. I don't think so."
"Well, I have. An' it's the rale thing, I'll tell ye. If iver a man
suckled a child, I did, or the next door to it. A girl child at
that, an' she's woman grown, now, an' if the thing is possible, I
love her more than her own blood-father. Bad luck, exciptin' her,
there was niver but one woman I loved, an' that woman had mated
beforetime. Not a soul did I brathe a word to, trust me, nor even
herself. But she died. God's love be with her."
His chin went down upon his chest and he quested back to a
flaxen-haired Saxon woman, strayed like a bit of sunshine into the
log store by the Dyea River. He looked up suddenly, and caught St.
Vincent's stare bent blankly to the floor as he mused on other things.
"A truce to foolishness, Vincent."
The correspondent returned to himself with an effort and found the
Irishman's small blue eyes boring into him.
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