's face. The cross of mixed blood in the younger
children was never alluded to in the family circle or among their
outside friends. In truth, there had been many such mixtures on the
island in the old times, although comparatively few in the modern days
to which William Douglas's second marriage belonged.

"Tita is French," said Anne, speaking rapidly, almost angrily.

"She is more French than Indian. Still--one never knows." Then, after a
pause: "I have been a slothful father, Anne, and feel myself cowardly
also in thus shifting upon your shoulders my own responsibilities.
Still, what can I do? I can not re-live my life; and even if I could,
perhaps I might do the same again. I do not know--I do not know. We are
as we are, and tendencies dating generations back come out in us, and
confuse our actions."

He spoke dreamily. His eyes were assuming that vague look with which his
children were familiar, and which betokened that his mind was far away.

"You could not do anything which was not right, father," said Anne.

She was standing by his side now, and in her young strength might have
been his champion against the whole world. The fire-light shining out
showed a prematurely old man, whose thin form, bent drooping shoulders,
and purposeless face were but Time's emphasis upon the slender, refined,
dreamy youth, who, entering the domain of doubt with honest negations
and a definite desire, still wandered there, lost to the world, having
forgotten his first object, and loving the soft haze now for itself
alone.

Anne received no answer: her father's mind had passed away from her.
After waiting a few moments in silence she saw that he was lost in one
of his reveries, and sitting down again she took up her work and went on
sewing with rapid stitches. Poor Anne and her poor presents! How coarse
the little white shirts for Louis and Andre! how rough the jacket for
Gabriel! How forlorn the doll! How awkwardly fashioned the small cloth
slippers for Tita! The elder sister was obliged to make her Christmas
gifts with her own hands; she had no money to spend for such
superfluities. The poor doll had a cloth face, with features painted on
a flat surface, and a painful want of profile. A little before twelve
the last stitch was taken with happy content.

"Papa, it is nearly midnight; do not sit up very late," said the
daughter, bending to kiss the father's bent, brooding brow. William
Douglas's mind came back for an instant, an