And yet--Oh, Ann, Ann! How could I take
that other man's child? We left her outside the old chief's wigwam.
Much as I have scoffed at marriage, I have married Nanca. Grant
insisted. He was a little bitter. I do not know what makes him so.
I have seen Dad. We quarreled bitterly. Agatha was there with him. I
can hardly write what followed. By some God-forsaken twist of Fate, a
jealous, sullen-eyed young Indian who had loved Nanca and had been
spurned by her father, followed us relentlessly from the Glades to St.
Augustine. He told Dad that Nanca had not been married to the
artist--that she was a mother and not a wife--and Dad believed it. I
told him patiently enough that there is no ceremony among the
Seminoles--that the man goes forth to the home of the girl at the
setting of the sun, and that he is then as legally her husband as if
all the courts in Christendom had tied the knot. Dad can not see it.
I shall be in New York in two weeks. Nanca and I are going to Spain.
I can not forget Dad's white, horror-struck face nor what he said. He
is bigoted and unjust. God help me, I hope that I may never set eyes
upon him again!
* * * * * *
We have been very happy here in Spain. I have run across a wonderful
old room in a Spanish castle.
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