'll never admit that I'm ashamed of her, for I am not!" his son
burst forth passionately.

"But people are watching you now--talking about you. Man, do ye not
ken you're your father's son?" A faint note of passion had crept into
The Laird's tones; under the stress of it, his faint Scotch brogue
increased perceptibly. He had tried gentle argument, and he knew he
had failed; in his desperation, he decided to invoke his authority as
the head of his clan. "I forbid you!" he cried firmly, and slapped the
huge leather arm of his chair. "I charge you, by the blood that's in
you, not to bring disgrace upon my house!"

A slight mistiness which Donald, with swelling heart, had noted in his
father's eyes a few moments before was now gone. They flashed like
naked claymores in the glance that Andrew Daney once had so aptly
described to his wife.

For the space of ten seconds, father and son looked into each other's
soul and therein each read the other's answer. There could be no
surrender.

"You have bred a man, sir, not a mollycoddle," said the young laird
quietly. "I think we understand each other." He rose, drew the old man
out of his chair, and threw a great arm across the latter's shoulders.
"Good-night, sir," he murmured humbly, and squeezed the old shoulders
a little.

The Laird bowed his head but did not answer. He dared not trust
himself to do so. Thus Donald left him, standing in the middle of the
room, with bowed head a trifle to one side, as if old Hector listened
for advice from some unseen presence. The Laird of Tyee had thought he
had long since plumbed the heights and depths of the joys and sorrows
of fatherhood. The tears came presently.

A streak of moonlight filtered into the room as the moon sank in the
sea and augmented the silver in a head that rested on two clasped
hands, while Hector McKaye, kneeling beside his chair, prayed to his
stern Presbyterian God once more to save his son from the folly of his
love.

XVIII

It had been Donald McKaye's intention to go up to the logging-camp on
the first log-train leaving for the woods at seven o'clock on Monday
morning, but the news of Dirty Dan's plight caused him to change his
plans. Strangely enough, his interview with his father, instead of
causing him the keenest mental distress, had been productive of a
peculiar sense of peace. The frank, sympathetic, and temperate manner
in which the old laird had discussed his affair had conduced to
produce