en old Caleb and the
boy had retired and she sat before the little wood fire alone with her
thoughts, this feeling of self-conscious rectitude slowly left her,
and into its place crept a sense of desolation inspired by one
thought that obtruded upon her insistently, no matter how desperately
she drove her mind to consider other things. She was not to see him
again--no, never any more. Those fearless, fiery gray eyes that were
all abeam with tenderness and complete understanding that day he left
her at the gate; those features that no one would ever term handsome,
yet withal so rugged, so strong, so pregnant of character, so
peculiarly winning when lighted by the infrequent smile--she was never
to gaze upon them again. It did not seem quite fair that, for all that
the world had denied her, it should withhold from her this
inconsequent delight. This was carrying misfortune too far; it was
terrible--unbearable almost--

A wave of self-pity, the most acute misery of a tortured soul, surged
over her; she laid her fair head on her arms outspread upon the table,
and gave herself up to wild sobbing. In her desolation, she called
aloud, piteously, for that mother she had hardly known, as if she
would fain summon that understanding spirit and in her arms seek the
comfort that none other in this world could give her. So thoroughly
did she abandon herself to this first--and final--paroxysm of despair
that she failed to hear a tentative rap upon the front door and,
shortly, the tread of rough-shod feet on the board walk round the
house. Her first intimation that some one had arrived to comfort her
came in the shape of a hard hand that thrust itself gently under her
chin and lifted her face from her arms.

Through the mist of her tears she saw only the vague outlines of a man
clad in heavy woolen shirt and mackinaw, such as her father frequently
wore.

"Oh, father, father!" she cried softly, and laid her head on his
breast, while her arms went round his neck. "I'm so terribly unhappy!
I can't bear it--I can't! Just--because he chose to be--kind to
us--those gossips--as if anybody could help being fond of him--"

She was held tight in his arms.

"Not your father, Nan." Donald murmured in a low voice.

She drew away from him with a sharp little cry of amazement and
chagrin, but his great arms closed round her and drew her close again.

"Poor dear," he told her, "you were calling for your mother. You
wanted a breast to weep upo