er Dirty Dan.

"Where's Donald?" he demanded.

"That's neither here nor there, sir," Mr. O'Leary replied evasively.
"He's safe, an' never knew they were afther him. T'ree o' thim, sir,
the naygur and two Greeks. I kidded thim into thinkin' I was Misther
McKaye; 'tis all over now, an' ye can find out what two Greeks it was
by those knives I took for evidence. I cannot identify thim, but go up
to Darrow in the mornin' an' look for a spreckled mulatter, wan Greek
wit' a broken right arm, an' another wit' a broken neck, but until I
die, do nothin'. If I get well, tell them to quit Darrow for good
agin' the day I come out o' the hospital. Good-night to you, sir, an'
thank ye for callin'."

From the hospital, Andrew Daney, avoiding the lighted main street,
hastened to the Sawdust Pile. A light still burned in Caleb Brent's
cottage; so Daney stood aloof in the vacant lot and waited. About ten
o'clock, the front door opened, and, framed in the light of the
doorway, the general manager saw Donald McKaye, and beside him Nan
Brent.

"Until to-morrow at five, Donald, since you will persist in being
obstinate," he heard Nan say, as they reached the gate and paused
there. "Good-night, dear."

Andrew Daney waited no longer, but turned and fled into the darkness.

XIII

Having done that which her conscience dictated, Nan Brent returned to
her home a prey to many conflicting emotions, chief of which were a
quiet sense of exaltation in the belief that she had played fair by
both old Hector and his son, and a sense of depression in the
knowledge that she would not see Donald McKaye again. As a boy, she
had liked him tremendously; as a man, she knew she liked him even
better.

She was quite certain she had never met a man who was quite fit to
breathe the same air with Donald McKaye; already she had magnified his
virtues until, to her, he was rapidly assuming the aspect of an
archangel--a feeling which bordered perilously on adoration.

But deep down in her woman's heart she was afraid, fearing for her own
weakness. The past had brought her sufficient anguish--she dared not
risk a future filled with unsatisfied yearning that comes of a great
love suppressed or denied.

She felt better about it as she walked homeward; it seemed that she
had regained, in a measure, some peace of mind, and as she prepared
dinner for her father and her child, she was almost cheerful. A warm
glow of self-complacency enveloped her. Later, wh