Obosky," she said, a red spot
in each cheek. "He shall not name that baby."

The Russian smiled. "Forgive me for saying that you will not feel so
bitterly toward him when the time comes for him to name your baby."

Ruth's lips fell apart. She stared for a moment in sheer astonishment.
Then she paled with anger. Drawing herself to her full height, she
asked:

"Are you deliberately trying to make me despise you?"

"By no means," replied the other, quite cheerfully. "I am merely giving
you something to think about, zat is all."

"Rubbish!" was all that Ruth flung over her shoulder as she walked away.

CHAPTER V.

It was the noon hour. Scores of men were resting in the shade of the
huts as she strode briskly past. They all smiled cheerily, but there
was good humoured mockery in their smiles. Here and there were groups of
women talking earnestly, excitedly.

Abel Landover was leaning in his doorway, watching her approach. His
eyes gleamed. She was very beautiful, she was very desirable. She had
been in his mind for months,--this fine, strong, thoroughbred daughter
of a thoroughbred gentleman. His sleeves were rolled up, his throat
was bare; his strong, deeply lined face was as brown as a berry; if
anything, his cold grey eyes were harder and more penetrating than
in the days when they looked out from a whiter countenance. He was a
strong, dominant figure despite, the estate to which he had fallen,--a
silent, sinister figure that might well have been described as "The
Thinker." For he was always thinking.

"I understand you tackled the 'boss' this morning, Ruth," he said as she
came up.

"I daresay the news is all over the island by this time," she replied,
still angry.

"Was it worth while?" he inquired, a trace of derision in his voice.

She was on the point of replying rather emphatically in the negative,
when suddenly she recalled the look in Percival's eyes and the first
words he spoke to her. She caught her breath. Her eyes sparkled, her
lips parted in a rosy smile.

"Yes, Mr. Landover, it was worth while," she said, and went on, leaving
him to reflections that were as perplexing as they were unanticipated.

She experienced a short spell of triumph. After all, Percival was in
love with her. She did not need Olga Obosky to tell her that. She could
see, she could feel for herself. A certain glee possessed her,--indeed,
as she afterwards succeeded in analysing the sensation, it bordered
decid