The old man's head bent low,
but his eyes were bright and strangely fascinating. He began:
"Laurence, my boy, your future is the dearest thing to me of all
earthly interests. Why you _can't_ marry this girl--no, no, sit, sit
until I have finished," he added, with raised voice, as Laurence
sprang up, remonstrating. "I have long since decided that you marry
well; for instance, the Hudson's Bay factor's daughter."
Laurence broke into a fresh, rollicking laugh. "What, uncle," he
said, "little Ida McIntosh? Marry that little yellow-haired fluff
ball, that kitten, that pretty little dolly?"
"Stop," said Father Paul. Then with a low, soft persuasiveness, "She
is _white_, Laurence."
My lover started. "Why, uncle, what do you mean?" he faltered.
"Only this, my son: poor Esther comes of uncertain blood; would it
do for you--the missionary's nephew, and adopted son, you might
say--to marry the daughter of a pagan Indian? Her mother is
hopelessly uncivilized; her father has a dash of French
somewhere--half-breed, you know, my boy, half-breed." Then, with
still lower tone and half-shut, crafty eyes, he added: "The blood is
a bad, bad mixture, _you_ know that; you know, too, that I am very
fond of the girl, poor dear Esther.
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