"God bless my soul!" The Laird almost shouted.
"Who the devil is 'Sweetheart'?"
"Only--have one--Scotty. Sorry--for you--but do you--happen to
know--last line--fairy-tale? Tell you. 'And so--they--were
married--and lived--happy--ever--after.'"
Fell a long silence. Then, from The Laird:
"And you're going to wait for--her, my son?"
"Certainly. Foolish die--now. I'll try--to wait. Try hard."
He was still trying when Nan Brent stepped off the special train at
Port Agnew on Friday morning. She was heavily veiled, and because of
the distinctly metropolitan cut of her garments, none recognized her.
With her child trotting at her side, she walked swiftly to the company
hospital, and the nurse, who had been watching for her, met her at the
door. The girl raised a white, haggard face, and her sad blue eyes
asked the question. The nurse nodded, led her down the hall, pointed
to the door of Donald's room, and then picked up Nan's child and
carried him off to the hospital kitchen for a cookie.
The outcast of Port Agnew entered. Hector McKaye sat by the bed,
gazing upon his son, who lay with closed eyes, so still and white and
emaciated that a sudden fear rose in Nan's mind. Had she arrived too
late?
The Laird turned and gazed at her an instant with dull eyes, then
sprang to meet her.
"Well, lass," he demanded, and there was a belligerent and resentful
note in his voice, "is this playing the game?" She nodded, her blurred
eyes fixed upon his son, and old Hector's face softened with a
tenderness almost paternal. "Then," he whispered, "you didn't mean
that--about the last line of the fairy-tale?"
Her head moved in negation, but she did not look at him. She had eyes
only for the wreck of the man she loved.
"I heard you needed me--to save him, Mr. McKaye. So I'm here--to save
him, if I can--for you--nothing more."
He bowed to her, deeply, humbly, as if she were in truth the grandest
lady in the land, then left the room hurriedly. Nan approached the
bed and leaned over Donald, gazing at him for several minutes, for he
was not as yet aware of her presence. Suddenly she commenced to sing
softly the song he loved: "Carry Me Back to Old Virginny," and her
hand stole into his. The little grin that crept over his bearded face
was ghastly; after the first bar, she bent and laid her cool cheek
against his.
"Well, old shipmate," she murmured in his ear, "I'm back."
"'God's in--his heaven,'" he whispered. "'All's right--with
the--world.'"