d to do it;
then, were he the devil himself, follow your own natural impulses." He
let go her chin and shook his forefinger between her eyes. "I'd rather
be happy than virtuous," the amazing man continued. "The calm
placidity that comes of a love of virtue and the possession of it
makes me sick! Such people are dull and stupid. They play
hide-and-seek with themselves, I tell you. Suspicious little souls
peering out of windows and shocked to death at everything they see or
hear--condemn everything they do not understand. Damn it, girl, give
me the virtue that's had to fight like the devil to stay on its
feet--the kind that's been scratched and has had the corners knocked
off in contact with the world and still believes that God made man to
his own image and likeness. I tell you, the Lord knew what he was
about when he invented the devil. If he hadn't, we'd all be so
nasty-nice nobody could trust the other fellow further'n you can throw
a bear up-hill by the tail. I tell you, young woman, sin is a great
institution. Why, just think of all the fun we have in life--we good
people--forgiving our neighbor his trespasses as he does not forgive
us for trespassing against him."

And with this remarkable statement, Mr. Daney betook himself to his
home. Mrs. Daney, a trifle red and watery about the eyes and nose, sat
up in bed and demanded to be informed what had kept him down-town so
late.

"Would you sleep any better if you knew?" he demanded.

She said she would not.

"Then, woman, resign yourself to the soft embrace of Bacchus, the god
of sleep," he replied, mixed metaphorically. "As for me, my dear, I'm
all talked out!"

XXXII

Donald, trembling on the brink of Beyond, not from his disease but
from the exhaustion incident to it, was conscious when his father
entered the room and sat down beside his bed.

"Well, lad," he greeted the boy with an assumption of heartiness he
was far from feeling, "and have you no good news for your old father
this morning. Tell me you're feeling better, lad."

"Read the telegram," Donald whispered, and old Hector, seeing a
telegram lying on the bed, picked it up. It was dated from New York
that morning, and the Laird read:

Due Port Agnew Friday morning. Remember the last line in the
fairy-tale. Love and kisses from your

SWEETHEART.

"God bless my soul!" The Laird almost shouted.

"Who the devil is 'Sweetheart'?"

"Only--have one--Scotty. Sorry--for you--b