Nan Brent's departure from the Sawdust Pile was known to so few in
Port Agnew that it was fully ten days before the news became general;
even then it excited no more than momentary comment, and a week later
when Donald McKaye returned to town, somewhat sooner than he had
anticipated, Port Agnew had almost forgotten that Nan Brent had ever
lived and loved and sinned in its virtuous midst. Even the small
gossip about her and the young laird had subsided, condemned by all,
including the most thoughtless, as a gross injustice to their favorite
son, and consequently dismissed as the unworthy tattling of unworthy,
suspicious old women. Life in the busy little sawmill town had again
sagged into the doldrums.
For several days, a feeling of lassitude had been stealing over
Donald. At first he thought it was mental depression, but when, later,
he developed nausea, lack of appetite, and pains in his head, back,
and extremities, it occurred to him that he wasn't feeling well
physically and that The Dreamerie was to be preferred to his rough
pine shanty in the woods, even though in the latter he had sanctuary
from the female members of his family.
He came in unexpectedly on the last log-train on Saturday night;
tired, with throbbing head and trembling legs, he crawled off the
caboose at the log dump and made his way weakly up to the mill office.
It was deserted when he got there at half-past six, but in his
mail-box he found something which he had promised himself would be
there, despite certain well-remembered assurances to the contrary. It
was a letter from Nan. He tore the envelop eagerly and read:
Donald dear, I love you. That is why I am leaving you. We shall
not meet again, I think. If we should, it will doubtless be years
hence, and by that time we shall both have resigned ourselves to
this present very necessary sacrifice. Good-by, poor dear.
Always your sweetheart,