n you are."

"But what is to become of you?" he demanded, in desperation.

"I do not know. It is a problem I am not going to consider very
seriously for at least a month. Of course I shall leave Port Agnew,
but before I do, I shall have to make some clothes for baby and
myself."

"I told my father I would give him a definite answer regarding you in
a month, Nan. I'm going up in the woods and battle this thing out by
myself."

"Please go home and give him a definite answer to-night. You have not
the right to make him suffer so," she pleaded.

"I'm not prepared to-night to abandon you, Nan. I must have some time
to get inured to the prospect."

"Did you come over to-night to tell me good-by before going back to
the woods, Donald?"

He nodded, and deliberately she kissed him with great tenderness.

"Then--good-by, sweetheart," she whispered. "In our case, the least
said is soonest mended. And please do not write to me. Keep me out of
your thoughts for a month, and perhaps I'll stay out."

"No hope," he answered, with a lugubrious smile. "However, I'll be as
good as I can. And I'll not write. But--when I return from that month
of exile, do not be surprised if I appear to claim you for good or for
evil, for better or for worse."

She kissed him again--hurriedly--and pressed him gently from her, as
if his persistence gave her cause for apprehension.

"Dear old booby!" she murmured. "Run along home now, won't you,
please?"

So he went, wondering why he had come, and the following morning,
still wrapped in a mental fog, he departed for the logging-camp, but
not until his sister Jane had had her long-deferred inning. While he
was in the garage at The Dreamerie, warming up his car, Jane appeared
and begged him to have some respect for the family, even though,
apparently, he had none for himself. Concluding a long and bitter
tirade, she referred to Nan as "that abandoned girl."

Poor Jane! Hardly had she uttered the words before her father appeared
in the door of the garage.

"One year, Janey," he announced composedly. "And I'd be pleased to see
the photograph o' the human being that'll make me revoke that
sentence. I'm fair weary having my work spoiled by women's tongues."

"I'll give you my photograph, old pepper-pot," Donald suggested. "I
have great influence with you have I not?"

The Laird looked up at him with a fond grin.

"Well?" he parried.

"You will remit the sentence to one washing of the mouth