NAN.

He read and reread the letter several times. It was undated.

Presently, with an effort, he recovered the envelop from the

waste-basket and examined the postmark. The letter had been mailed

from Seattle, but the post-date was blurred.

With the letter clutched in his hand, he bent forward and pillowed his

hot face in his arms, outspread upon his father's old desk. He wanted

to weep--to sob aloud in a childish effort to unburden his heart,

scourged now with the first real sorrow of his existence. His throat

contracted; something in his breast appeared to have congealed, yet

for upward of an hour he neither moved nor gave forth a sound. At

last, under the inspiration of a great hope that came apparently

without any mental effort or any desire for hope, so thoroughly

crushed was he, the black, touseled head came slowly up. His face,

usually ruddy beneath the dark, suntanned skin but now white and

haggard, showed a fleeting little smile, as if he grinned at his own

weakness and lack of faith; he rose unsteadily and clumped out of the

office-building.

Gone! Nan gone--like that! No, no! He would not believe it. She might

have intended to go--she might have wanted to go--she might even have

started to go--but she had turned back! She loved him; she was his.

During those long days and nights up in the woods, he had fought the

issue with himself and made up his mind that Nan Brent was the one

woman in the world for him, that there could never, by God's grace, be

any other, and that he would have her, come what might and be the

price what it would. Rather than the fortune for which his father had

toiled and sacrificed, Donald preferred Nan's love; rather than a life

of ease and freedom from worry, he looked forward with a fierce joy to

laboring with his hands for a pittance, provided he might have the

privilege of sharing it with her. And The Dreamerie, the house his

father had built with such great, passionate human hopes and tender

yearnings, the young laird of Port Agnew could abandon without a pang

for that little white house on the Sawdust Pile. Round steak and

potatoes, fried by the woman destined to him for his perfect mate,

would taste better to him than the choicest viands served by light

stepping servitors in his father's house.

What, after all, was there worth while in the world for him if he was

to be robbed of his youth and his love? For him, the bare husks of

life held no allurement; he was one of that virile, human type that

rejects the doctrine of sacrifice, denial, and self-repression in this

life for the greater glory of God and man's promise of a reward in

another life, of which we wot but little and that little not

scientifically authenticated. He wanted the great, all-compelling,

omnipotent Present, with its gifts that he could clutch in his fierce

hands or draw to his hungry heart. To hell with the future. He

reflected that misers permit their thoughts to dwell upon it and die

rich and despised, leaving to the apostles of the Present the

enjoyment of the fruits of a foolish sacrifice.

"She came back. I know she did," he mumbled, as he groped his way

through the dark of the drying-yard. "I'm sick. I must see her and

tell her to wait until I'm well. The damned dirty world can do what it

jolly well pleases to me, but I'll protect her from it. I will--by

God!"

He emerged into the open fields beyond which lay the Sawdust Pile,

snuggled down on the beach. The Brent cottage was visible in the dim

starlight, and he observed that there was no light in the window;

nevertheless, his high faith did not falter. He pressed on, although

each step was the product of an effort, mental and physical. His legs

were heavy and dragged, as if he wore upon, his logger's boots the

thick, leaden soles of a deep-sea diver.

At the gate, he leaned and rested for a few minutes, then entered the

deserted yard and rapped at the front door; but his summons bringing

no response, he staggered round to the back door and repeated it. He

waited half a minute and then banged furiously with his fist upon the

door-panel. Still receiving no response, he seized the knob and shook

the door until the little house appeared to rattle from cellar to

cupola.

"Nan! Nan! Where are you?" he called. "It is I--Donald. Answer me,

Nan. I know you haven't gone away. You wouldn't! Please answer me,

Nan!"

But the only sound he heard was the labored pumping of his own heart

and the swish of the wavelets against the timbered buttress of the

Sawdust Pile. The conviction slowly came to his torpid brain that he

was seeking admittance to a deserted house, and he leaned against the

door and fought for control of himself. Presently, like a stricken

animal, he went slowly and uncertainly away in the direction whence he

had come.

* * * * *

Andrew Daney had put out the cat and wound the clock and was about to

ascend to his chamber (now, alas, reoccupied by Mrs. Daney, upon whom

the news of Nan's departure had descended like a gentle rainfall over

a hitherto arid district) when he heard slow footsteps on his front

veranda. Upon going to the door and peering out, he was amazed to see

Donald McKaye standing just outside.

"Well, bless my soul!" Daney declared. "So it's you Donald. Come in,

lad; come in."

Donald shook his head.

"No, I've only come to stay a minute, Mr. Daney. Thank you, sir. I--I

notice you're running a light track from the drying-yard down to the

Sawdust Pile. Stumbled over it in the dark a few minutes ago, and I--"

He essayed a ghastly smile, for he desired to remove the sting from

the gentle rebuke he purposed giving the general manger--"couldn't

seem to remember having ordered that track--or--suggesting that it be

laid."

"Quite so, Donald; quite so," Daney answered. "I did it on my own

initiative. Nan Brent has abandoned the Sawdust Pile--moved away from

Port Agnew, you know; so I decided to extend the drying-yard, and

squat on the Sawdust Pile before some undesirable took possession."

"Hm-m-m! I see. Well, suppose Nan takes a notion to return to Port

Agnew, Mr. Daney. She'll find our drying-yard something of a nuisance,

will she not?"

"Oh, but she's not coming back," Daney assured him, with all the

confidence of one free from the slightest doubt on the subject.

"She might. I could see rather dimly into the kitchen and it appears

Miss Brent left her little home furnished."

"Yes, she did, Donald. I believe she just turned the key in the lock

and went away."

"Know where she went, Mr. Daney?"

"No. She didn't even leave a forwarding address for her mail."

The young laird of Tyee lurched up to Mr. Daney and laid a heavy hand

on the older man's shoulder.

"How do you know that?" he demanded, and there was a growl in his

voice. "Has Mrs. Daney been asking the postmaster?"

Mr. Daney saw that, for some inexplicable reason, he was in for a bad

five minutes or more. His youthful superior's face was white and

beaded with perspiration. Daney had a suspicion that Donald had had a

drink or two.

"There has been no gossip, Donald," he answered crisply. "Get that

notion out of your head. I would protect you from gossip, for I think

I know my duty to the McKayes. I learned that lesson a long time ago,"

he added, with spirit.

"You haven't answered my question, Mr. Daney," Donald persisted.

"I shall. I know, because she told me herself." Mr. Daney had not

intended that Donald should ever discover that he had had an interview

with Nan Brent, but his veracity had, for the moment, appeared to him

to be questioned by his superior, and he was too truthful, too

thoroughly honest to attempt now to protect his reputation for

truth-telling by uttering a small fib, albeit he squirmed inwardly at

the terrible necessity for such integrity.

"Ah! Then Nan called upon you again?"

Mr. Daney sighed.

"No, I called upon her."

"With reference to what?"

"To settle with her for the loss of the Brutus."

"When did you lose the Brutus."

Mr. Daney pulled at his ear, gazed at the porch light, rubbed his

Adam's apple, and gave the exact date.

"What happened to the Brutus?"

"She just disappeared, Donald. She was tied up alongside the barge--"

The heavy hand on Mr. Daney's shoulder tightened a little. Donald was

merely holding fast to the general manager in order to stay on his

feet, but Mr. Daney credited him with being the victim of rising

anger.

"When did Nan leave Port Agnew, Mr. Daney?"

"Let me see, Donald." Mr. Daney tugged at his beard. "Why, she left

two weeks ago yesterday. Yes; she left on the nineteenth."

"When did you settle with her for the loss of the Brutus?"

"On the sixteenth," Daney answered glibly.

"How much?"

"Twenty-five hundred dollars. It was more than the Brutus was worth,

but I disliked to appear niggardly in the matter, Donald. I knew you

and your father would approve whatever sum I settled for--and the loss

of the little boat provided a nice opportunity for generosity without

hurting the girl's pride."

"Yes--thank you, Mr. Daney. That was kind and thoughtful of you."

Donald spoke the words slowly, as if he searched his brain carefully

for each word and then had to coax his tongue into speaking it. "You

settled, then, two days after the boat disappeared. Fast work. Nobody

up here would steal the boat. Too much distance between ports--run

short of gasoline, you know, on her limited tank capacity--and if

anybody had purchased cased gasoline around here to load on deck,

you'd know of it. Hard to conceal or disguise a forty-foot boat, too."

His fingers closed like steel nippers over Mr. Daney's shoulder.

"Where did you hide the boat, Mr. Daney? Answer me. I'll not be

trifled with."

"I scuttled her--if you must have the truth."

"I knew you wouldn't lie to me. On whose orders, Mr. Daney? My

father's?"

"No, sir; it was my own idea." Daney's face was white with mental and

physical distress and red with confusion, by turns. His shoulder was

numb.

"Why?"

"I figured that if the girl had some money to make a new start

elsewhere, she'd leave Port Agnew, which would be best for all

concerned."

"Why, Andrew Daney, you old hero! Cost you something to confess that,

didn't it? Well--I guessed you or my father had induced her to go, so

I concluded to start the investigation with you," He passed his hand

over his white dripping brow before resuming what he had to say. "The

Tyee Lumber Company isn't equipped to carry on its pay-roll Mr. Donald

McKaye and the man who interferes in his personal affair, even though

actuated by a kindly interest. You rip up that track you're laying and

leave Nan's home alone. Then you clean up your desk and hand me your

resignation. I'm sick--and your damned interference hurts. Sorry; but

you must go. Understand? Nan's coming back--understand? Coming

back--devilish hot night--for this time of year, isn't it? Man, I'm

burning up."

It came to Mr. Daney that the young laird was acting in a most

peculiar manner. Also, he was talking that way. Consequently, and what

with the distress of being dismissed from the McKaye service in such

cavalier fashion, the general manager decided to twist out from under

that terrible grasp on his shoulder.

Instantly, Donald released from this support, swayed and clutched

gropingly for Mr. Daney's person.

"Dizzy," he panted. "Head's on strike. Mr. Daney, where the devil are

you? Don't run away from me. You damned old muddler, if I get my hands

on you I'll pick you apart--yes, I will--to see--what makes you go.

You did it, Yes, you did--even if you're too stupidly honest--to lie

about it. Glad of that, though, Mr. Daney. Hate liars and interfering

duffers. Ah--the cold-blooded calculation of it--took advantage of her

poverty. She's gone--nobody knows--May God damn your soul to the

deepest hell--Where are you? I'll kill you--no, no; forgive me,

sir--Yes, you've been faithful, and you're an old employe--I wish you

a very pleasant good-evening, sir."

He stepped gingerly down the three wide stairs, pitched forward, and

measured his length in a bed of pansies. Mr. Daney came down, struck a

match, and looked at his white face. Donald was apparently

unconscious; so Mr. Daney knelt, placed his inquisitive nose close to

the partly open lips, and sniffed. Then he swore his chiefest oath.

"Hell's hells and panther-tracks! He isn't drunk. He's sick."

Fifteen minutes later, the young Laird of Port Agnew reposed in the

best room of his own hospital, and Andrew Daney was risking his life

motoring at top speed up the cliff road to The Dreamerie with bad news

for old Hector. Mrs. McKaye and the girls had retired but The Laird

was reading in the living-room when Daney entered unannounced.

Old Hector looked up at his general manager from under his white,

shaggy brow.

"Ye, Andrew," he saluted the latter gently, "I see by your face it's

not welcome news you bring. Out with it, man."

So Andrew came "out with it," omitting no detail, and at the

conclusion of his recital, the old man wagged his head to emphasize

his comprehension.

"My son is not a dull man by any means," he said presently. "He knows

what he knows--a man sure of himself always--and oh, Andrew man,

because of the brain of him and the sweet soul of him, it breaks my

heart to give pain to him. And what does the doctor say?"

"From a cursory examination he suspects typhoid fever."

"Ah, that's bad, bad, Andrew."

"The boy has the strength of a Hercules, sir. He'll beat through,

never fear."

"Well, he'll not die to-night, at any rate," old Hector answered, "and

I can do no good puttering round the hospital to-night. Neither would

I alarm his mother and the girls. Send for the best medical brains in

the country, Andrew, and don't quibble at the cost. Pay them what they

ask. 'Twill be cheap enough if they save him. Good-night, Andrew, and

thank you kindly." He stood up and laid his hand affectionately upon

the shoulder of his faithful servant and walked with him thus to the

door. "My good Andrew," he murmured, and propelled the general manager

gently outside, "there's no need to worry over the dismissal. When the

lad's well, he'll rescind his order, so, in the meantime, do not leave

us."

"But--if he shouldn't rescind it?" Daney pleaded anxiously. Although

he was comfortably fixed with this world's goods and had long since

ceased to work for monetary reward, the Tyee Lumber Company was,

nevertheless, part of his life, and to be dismissed from its service

was akin to having some very necessary part of him amputated.

"Tush, man; tush! Don't be building a mare's nest," old Hector

answered and closed the door upon him. For The Laird was losing

control of himself and he could not bear that any human eye should

gaze upon his weakness.