y
and her sweetness, and the soul of him was troubled.

"Is it something you could confide in an old man?" he queried gently.
"You are much neglected, and I--I understand the thoughts that must
come to you sometimes. Perhaps you would be happier elsewhere than in
Port Agnew."

"Perhaps," she replied dully.

"If you could procure work--some profession to keep your mind off your
troubles--I have some property in Tacoma--suburban lots with cottages
on them." The Laird grew confused and embarrassed because of the
thought that was in the back of his mind, and was expressing himself
jerkily and in disconnected sentences. "I do not mean--I do not offer
charity, for I take it you have had enough insults--well, you and your
father could occupy one of those cottages at whatever you think you
could afford to pay, and I would be happy to advance you any funds you
might need until you--could--that is, of course, you must get on your
feet again, and you must have help--" He waved his hand. "All this
oppresses me."

The remembrance of Mrs. Daney's interview with her prompted the girl
to flash back at him.

"'Oppresses,' Mr. McKaye? Since when?"

He gazed upon her in frank admiration for her audacity and
perspicacity.

"Yes," he admitted slowly; "I dare say I deserve that. Yet, mingled
with that ulterior motive you have so unerringly discerned, there is a
genuine, if belated, desire to be decently human. I think you realize
that also."

"I should be stupid and ungrateful did I not, Mr. McKaye. I am sorry I
spoke just now as I did, but I could not bear--"

"To permit me to lay the flattering unction to my soul that I had
gotten away with something, eh?" he laughed, much more at his ease,
now that he realized how frank and yet how tactful she could be.

"It wasn't quite worthy of you--not because I might resent it, for I
am nobody, but because you should have more faith in yourself and be
above the possibility of disturbance at the hands--or rather, the
tongues--of people who speak in whispers." She came close to him
suddenly and laid her hand lightly on his forearm, for she was
speaking with profound earnestness. "I am your debtor, Mr. McKaye, for
that speech you found it so hard to make just now, and for past
kindnesses from you and your son. I cannot accept your offer. I would
like to, did my pride permit, and were it not for the fact that such
happiness as is left to my father can only be found by the Bight of
Tyee. So